Viciousness
by Medusa Davenport
Summary: 'Every night Hawke comes to him like a lover and they brawl in the open spaces of his mansion, taunting themselves with proximity.'  Rivalmance reinterpreted.  Fenris/F!Hawke, smuttiness.  Epilogue added.
1. Beginnings

**_Warnings:_ violence, dark characters, Deep Roads death**

A short first chapter that begins me re-interpretation of rivalmance with aggressive Hawke. I feel like different personalities should have slight alterations to the romances, not just whether it's friend or rival. So here's the beginning of the rivalmance. Because this Hawke wouldn't have it any other way.

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><p>The first time she sees him her lips twist in a grim smile as he rips a man's heart from his chest. As her companions gawk and gasp and sputter behind her, she smirks to recognize a kindred spirit.<p>

"My name is Fenris," he says, murmuring an apology for the attacking slavers in formal words that flow easily from him, his tone twisting with bitterness and rage.

Another woman might wax poetic about the loveliness of his chiseled features and green eyes and exotic tattoos. Still another might fixate on his eloquence, the uncanny articulation and the vast intelligence and wealth of knowledge his every word conveyed. She can't look at him or speak with him and not appreciate these qualities, even admire them. But she isn't compelled by the beauty or intelligence or wisdom.

Her eyes meet his, her smirk growing imperceptible yet remaining. "Hawke," she says, not wasting time with a lengthy introduction. She cannot take her eyes off him, yet it is none of those obvious features of superficial attraction that truly attracts her.

Before she agrees to go with him, she makes him plead with her. Not because she doesn't intend to help him, but because some gnawing part of her loves that note of desperation creeping into his deep voice and needs to know why he makes her blood run hot when so many others have failed. She must accompany him to discover how he's sucked her in so instantly, against all sense and rationale.

Hawke thrills at the viciousness that defines him. That combination of deadly skill and deadlier hatred, the way he twists his large blade as he tears through the ethereal opponents inhabiting his former master's home. For all her speed and skill, for all the havoc she wreaks on their enemies, she cannot stand against him. He fells the shades in swift clean arcs, rather than the distracting flashes and flourishes of her attacks.

The master is gone and the elf walks outside hiding clouded eyes behind white bangs. Now, watching him walk out of the brimstone-scented foyer, she orders her other companions to round up any treasure that might remain and meet her out front.

This beautiful, intelligent, bitter, _vicious_ elf sneers at Bethany and accuses her of being a viper. He acts as if she's less than human because of her powers.

As much as her little sister might irritate her at moments, Hawke clenches fists and teeth when he says these things. Before she can lunge for him, Varric elbows her. She blinks, startled, not sure whether she meant to kiss Fenris or bite his lips, to run her fingers through his hair or tear at it with her hands.

Crossing her arms to hold both her temper and libido in check, Hawke says, "I'm planning an expedition."

_She doesn't realize for years that she sealed her fate with those four words._

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><p>The rogues he knows are cowards, sneaking and snaking through smoky screens to sink their blades into your back because they're afraid to see your face. She doesn't do that. She dodges a blow and smirks at the group of men she means to kill, and in a few twists of sharp metal they fall dead. He's fascinated watching her fight, how her feet and knees and elbows become weapons as well, how her whole body vibrates a frequency of perfect viciousness as she dances through her enemies.<p>

When she first comes to his home with her chin lifted at a confident, even arrogant angle, he tries to startle her by flinging a bottle of the most expensive wine against the wall. Hawke doesn't even flinch, and Fenris feels gratification at her stoicism and fury that she can take his suffering so lightly. Instead, her eyes meet his and an electric shock runs down his spine and into his limbs.

In spite of the fact that he accompanies her a few days each week on her wild money-earning quests, she visits him once a week at night. After a few months he expects her visits and paces, restless until she arrives on some random night to sit with him. Each time she comes through his door he scowls and tells her to knock, and each time he pulls out a bottle of wine they sit by the fire passing it between them, and each time they argue with heated words and eyes that wander in a tipsy fervor over one another's faces and bodies.

Fenris doesn't understand why she comes to argue with him, or why he doesn't throw her out. When she asks him to come with her to the Deep Roads, he agrees without hesitation. He has no better place to be than with her.

"Bethany is coming, too," she says the night before they leave. She is over to check that he's supplied and to drink wine and argue with him. Instead of armor, she wears a sleeveless white shirt and snug leather leggings and he stares at her chest instead of the challenge in her eyes.

"Very well," he says, meeting her gaze. Better her sister than the blood mage or the abomination.

Her brows draw together and her lips tighten for a moment. "You're not going to argue about this?" she asks him, her shoulders rolling to that deceptive pose of relaxation that often precedes disembowelments.

He shrugs and explains his reasoning, leaving out the fact that he doesn't mind Hawke's sweet, naïve little sister. Somehow Bethany reminds him of someone precious that he knew before his brands, someone he would endure any amount of darkness and suffering if it meant protecting their purity. He knows even as he thinks it that Hawke understands without words because she's embraced her own darkness to keep her sister safe and innocent.

When Bartrand betrays them, Hawke purses her lips and leads them through the winding tunnels without hesitating. She seems perfectly calm, until they encounter a room of treasure guarded by ghosts and golems and then he sees her viciousness magnified.

Her knives strike harder and move faster than he's ever seen. The blades lacerate the golem and massacre the shades.

A few days from the surface, Bethany collapses. He and Varric hover away from the sisters playing Diamondback while they talk in hushed voices, but his sharp ears hear every word.

"Do you remember when you first gave Carver a bloody nose?" Bethany asks.

Fenris can't resist glancing at them, to see the faint smile on Hawke's lips that doesn't touch her eyes. "Do you remember when you first set his arse on fire?" she answers.

The mage girl's laughs turn to choking and she whispers in a harsh, bubbling voice, "please." He can't look away, his cards drooping toward the stone floor as Hawke touches her forehead to her sister's and wraps one arm around the shivering shoulders.

The knife flashes between them and he watches as Bethany falls limp into Hawke's waiting embrace. Black blood drips from her mouth, staining the knife and Hawke's hands and her armor.

They can't bury her down here. Fenris carries the body to the edge of a river of lava and they stare as Bethany's form floats down through the void and disappears in flames and sparks. Hawke strips off her bloodstained armor a second later and flings it after her sister.


	2. Battles

_Author's note:_ Sorry for the time between updates. Again, this is an alternative to the in-game rival romance and as it goes on it will veer further and further off-canon, though other details and characters will follow the game fairly closely. Written for Aggressive Hawke, who just doesn't get enough fan love (and she's so pimp, man!)

_**Warnings:**_ violence, alcohol, sensuality and the combined might of Varric and Isabela

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><p>Fenris stalks around his mansion at night swearing in Arcanum. He hacks a few pieces of furniture to kindling with his sword and tears several of the useless books off the shelves, ripping the pages out to feed the fireplace. He refuses to look at the window, where <em>she<em> lives just a rooftop away. He could slip into her bedroom window without anyone else knowing and-

"_Festis bei umo canavarum_," he snarls, flinging a painted urn into the wall.

He needs to leave this place. She will not come tonight, because she has not visited him in almost a year, not since they left the Deep Roads. Every time he sees her it is outside, either fighting gangs or in the Hanged Man, where her sober eyes keep watch around the card table. He watches her across the table and every time, resentful that she does not speak to him, or to anyone else, unless spoken to. In the past months he's drank himself into a stupor on the card nights, drinking until he couldn't stand and had to stay on the floor in Varric's suite, a level of trust and security that he never knew until she came into his life.

His chest tightens as he thinks of her deliberate cruelty, spurring his feet to a run as he moves through the shadows toward Lowtown. The door of the Hanged Man has been rigged to prevent too much drunken slamming, and creaks on a hidden spring so that his grand entrance snaps back at his face and he has to try again. He knows this, and he blames her absence and her refusal to see him for his forgetfulness.

"That was well done," announces a brash, loud female voice and Fenris bites back a snarl. Isabela stands at her usual corner of the bar, smirking as she watches him come in. She shifts her elbows to the counter, folding her arms to push her breasts together in a show that would be impressive if it weren't such an obvious ploy for attention. Batting her heavily made-up eyes, she purrs, "So, have you come all this way to visit little old me?"

"No," he answers, walking past her, up to Varric's suite.

Either the pirate cannot take a hint or lacks any sort of survival instinct, because she follows after him, plopping into a chair beside the dwarf and slinging her legs over the side in such a way that her lack of undergarments is apparent. He snorts and looks past her, to Varric.

"Girl problems again, Broody?" the dwarf asks, not looking up from the column of numbers he's engrossed in.

Isabela perks up, a sly smirk spreading over her face, and shifts to sit properly, pinning him with her stare. "Ooh, _do_ tell. I haven't heard a thing about this... thing," she chuckles.

"I do _not_ have girl problems," Fenris snarls, smacking a fist on the table and raising that same hand to point at the pirate, still refusing to look at her and her infernal knowing smirk. "Why is she here?"

Varric lifts his head from his accounting sheets and removes his gold-rimmed spectacles, glancing between the two of them with an expression of paternal exasperation. "No one's told you anything because you're a gossip, Rivaini," he says in a placating tone, patting her brown hand. His eyes shift to Fenris, brows lifting. "And Isabela lives here, or at least she pays for the room she passes out drunk in."

Fenris scowls, but he can't argue the obvious, if unstated, point. He has taken advantage of the dwarf's hospitality and good nature far too often in the last months.

"So what _is_ going on between the two of you?" Isabela asks, planting her chin on her hand and staring with a rapt expression. "You're both so stoic and silent, I wonder how either of you would manage to talk about it. Or do you just skip the talking and jump right to the steamy part?"

"Isabela," Varric says in a warning voice, before Fenris can lunge from his chair and tear her damned throat out. He turns his attention back to Fenris. "Have you ever thought of going to visit her? She might be busy helping her mother... arrange shit." He makes a fluttering motion with his hands, the same gesture that he often uses as accompaniment for Orlesian jokes and explanations of magic.

The pirate laughs, a harsh noise that startles the entering waitress. "Wait, you haven't even gone to see her new place?" She claps both hands over her mouth and brays again, eliciting a wince from Fenris. "Maker, that's priceless."

"Do not involve yourself in my affairs," he growls at her.

"How can I, when you're not having any?" she laughs, and Varric laughs as well, the two of them far more struck with the hilarity of it that he is.

The waitress hands him a cup of whiskey and he drinks it in a long, burning gulp. Fenris glares at her and hands over the necessary coin from his belt pouch. He stands up as the waitress leaves and glares at the pair with him at the table as their giggles subside.

"I'm leaving," he announces.

Both get up as he turns away, calling "Wait, Fenris," and "Don't go," and the like. He scowls and keeps on his course, refusing to be swayed back to their mockery. As he descends the stairs, he hears the pirate yell, "Go pay Hawke a midnight visit, already!"

Bawdy laughter chases him out, and he snarls at the night as he makes his way toward Hightown. He hopes some thugs try to rob him, though he doesn't look like a good target in his ferocious armor with a giant sword on his back. Furious, ashamed, he stalks through the streets of Lowtown, past the alley where she used to live and finally to the bazaar, his feet silent in the dark.

Just as he prepares to give up hope of encountering any gangs as he enters the Hightown Marketplace, an arrow whizzes past him and he turns to see it thunk into a merchant's covered stand. A feral smile darkens his face as the lyrium lines light his skin. He draws his sword and charges.

Fenris almost pulls up short when he sees _her_ there, daggers flashing as she dodges arrows and blades alike, twisting inside of the heavier swords' reach as her knives sink through the gaps in their armor.

As he swings his savage blade through several attackers trying to cluster around her and overwhelm her with numbers, he can't help admiring the surgical precision of her strikes. A knife to the kidney, through the side lacings, angled just so. A blade to a jugular. A shield slams into her chest, flailing wildly, and she stumbles back, lashing her feet out into the shield-bearer's knee. He hears a sick crunching noise before his sword squelches through that thug's neck.

Her foot hooks around the severed head as she stands and lobs it into the face of a rogue trying to sneak up behind him. The metal helmet cracks through the woman's facial bones and his sword finishes her off. The rest of the gang members die within seconds.

They face each other in the empty, darkened marketplace, surrounded by corpses. The faint sheen of sweat on her face makes her skin glow in between the blood splatters, and the fire in her eyes makes his heart race and his lungs feel too small. For too long they stare at one another, and he wonders if she also feels that lingering battle euphoria, the bloodlust transforming once the bloodshed ends. His mind whirls as he studies her features, the strange combination of delicate bones and hardened strength that reveal no emotion. Only the brilliant eyes, the flash of pure viciousness that smolders there.

He's furious at her for not visiting him and for being out here and for staring at him like that and most of all because he wants to step forward and grip her face in his hands and tear at her hair as he devours her mouth. She is too good for him and knows it, and he's certain that's why he wants her, so he can knock her off her thrice-damned pedestal with every gasp of pleasure and pain.

"What were you thinking, coming out here alone?" he demands, satisfying his urge to yell and to step closer in one swoop.

Those fiery eyes burn brighter as they narrow on his face. "I might ask you the same question," she retorts, crossing her arms.

"You are too-" he claws the air with one hand, unable to find an appropriate word and snarls, "-too _small_ to be running around alone at night." He wants to shake her. She must be some new torture devised by Danarius, some wild dream the mage has created of freedom so he can learn how he'll never be free of the magister unless he enslaves himself to her.

Her lips curl into a sneer. "I did well enough before you came charging in," she lets her arms fall, but he can see the tension coiling through her body. He recognizes her fighting stance and realizes that she's prepared to fight him, bare knuckles, right here in the market.

Fenris wants her to lash out, to lose that perfect calm and take a swing at him. He knows that if they fight, it will be brutal and vicious and everything about her that makes his skin tingle and his heart race. The idea thrills him, makes his blood sing in his veins. His eyes sharpen on her face in the dark as he sneers back at her, his hands clenching at his sides. He feels as if his heart will beat so hard that it pops, the way so many hearts have popped in his hand before. And it infuriates him, because what right does she have to make him feel this way?

"You should not be wandering alone at night," he snaps. Why does he feel so protective over her? She is better with her daggers than the pirate, who wanders at night more often than not. She is faster than he is, able to dart and flip and dodge around enemies and kill them instantly with her blades. But the idea she might have been killed or wounded or worse tonight makes bile and rage rise in him. He isn't sure who he's mad at now- whether it's her or Danarius or the thugs who attacked her.

She tosses her head, dark hair jerking away from her eyes for a moment so he's struck with the full force of her gaze as she steps closer to him. He sees heat and fury and that beautiful vicious edge to her stare as she conducts her deliberate invasion of his personal space, halting when the leather armor covering her breasts presses to his metal chestpiece. "Don't tell me what to do," she answers, her voice low and dangerous, barely more than a whisper.

"You are a fool," he snarls, reaching a clawed gauntlet into her hair, the fine strands tangling around his fingers as he twists her head back, staring down over the scant inches of height that separate them. He feels her seething breath against his mouth and suppresses a shudder at the desire it evokes. His gaze darkens to match hers and he adds, "I could do anything right now and you would be helpless to stop me."

"And what would you do?" she sneers, arching her neck to bring her mouth closer still. The vicious eyes seem sharper, intent, and yet something clouds through them that he can't read, because she couldn't possibly desire him. No, she means to challenge him, to remind him that she is better than him.

He shoves her away as suddenly as he grabbed her, forceful enough that she stumbles back. They stare at one another a second longer and she whirls to stalk up the steps of the market. He knows he ought to follow after her, to walk her to her door and ensure no further thugs attack, but he stands there in the dark market, staring at her swaying hips and wondering if he should have kissed her.

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><p>Hawke crosses her arms and tips back on her chair, her feet crossed at the ankles on the tabletop. The posture appears casual, but from this position she can think of eleven possible attacks or defenses she can mount with either her body, knives, the chair or the table itself.<p>

Varric raises his brows at her in an attempt to look innocent, but the corner of his mouth smirks just enough that she can tell he's plotting. "Fenris was here the other day," he comments in his 'talking about the weather' tone. The smirk creeps a bit higher. "He said he hadn't seen you in a while."

She shrugs as if it can halt the racing of her pulse. "So?" she asks, her tone harsh. "All we do is argue, anyway."

Now the dwarf has a blighted glitter in his eyes. "Oh, Hawke," he laughs, waving a hand as if to dismiss her defensiveness. "I know you haven't gotten together. If you had, neither of you would be so grouchy about each other."

Scowling, she glances around the bar and counts patrons, just to test that she still knows where everyone is, to maintain that vital situational awareness that allows her to sense traps and enemies, avoiding death and dealing it with brutal efficiency. Better to keep her attention on the motion around her than to flip backward off her tilted chair and kick it across the table at him. "You're being nosy, Varric," she snaps. "If you know what's going on, why do you need to ask?"

"I'm confirming things," he says, the smooth baritone insufficient to hide his irritation. He takes a sip of his ale and mutters into the cup, "Why couldn't you just drink?"

No matter how often the dwarf offers her a drink, she sticks to the murky water that they serve at the Hanged Man. She doesn't trust herself to drink since Bethany died. It feels like a scream building inside of her, this horrible burning void. Both her younger siblings are dead. Her father told her to protect her family, to take care of those precious younger siblings and she keeps failing all of them over and over. Hawke knows that if she drinks, if she lets herself embrace that outlet, she'll fall into that void and that scream will emerge to consume her.

"When will Aveline be here?" she asks, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, she's not coming," Varric waves a hand at her absently. "Late patrol duty or something." He shrugs and takes another, longer sip from his mug.

Her eyes narrow on her companion and she stretches in the chair until the balls of her feet leave the table, only the tips of her toes connecting her to the surface. "Was she ever coming, Varric?" she asks, her voice lowering to a dangerous octave.

"Nope," he answers, unafraid. "I wanted to ask if the elf had gone to see you."

"Then, if the bullshit is quite done, I'm leaving," she responds. The chair's legs snap back into place and the moment her feet touch the ground she stands, glaring at her dwarven companion.

Varric gives her a thoughtful stare, tapping one thick finger against his chin. "You know, you and the elf are so alike sometimes I wonder what'll happen first- either you'll kill each other or sleep with each other."

Hawke spares the dwarf an obscene backwards gesture as she stalks through the door of the pub and into the dark street. Why must her companions be so Maker-forsaken nosy? Why must they insist on inserting themselves into all of her business at every opportunity? How bored are they?

The animal fat torches of Lowtown smoke and stink and when one thug attempts to approach her she yanks a knife from her belt and flings it into his throat before he can get across the bazaar, pausing only to yank the blade out as she continues on her way. She sees the shifting eyes and hears nervous murmurs and knows the rest of the man's gang is debating whether or not to attack her. They make the smart choice and slink back to their dirty alleyways.

Hightown passes in a blur and she doesn't realize she's walked past her own estate until she finds herself standing in the front hall of Danarius' stolen manor. "Fenris!" she shouts, letting the syllables of his name become a roar of rage.

A moment later the telltale shock of white hair appears on the landing, the prowling figure haloed in firelight from the room behind him. She can't see his eyes, but the tension of his body reveals the viciousness within and the insides of her lungs seem to stick to themselves. He stalks down the stairs without a word, stepping over corpses that he refuses to remove and broken pieces of glass and furniture with sure steps. The brutal cold of his stare burns through her; she knows that in spite of the obstacles his feet navigate he never takes his eyes off her until he stands with his chest almost against hers, as they stood in the marketplace surrounded by bodies.

"Hawke," he says, in that infuriating calm voice. She prefers him screaming, ranting, angry and passionate. Her brows contract at the last thought and she narrows her eyes at him.

"Get your sword," she says, imitating his frosty tone and commanding demeanor.

One of his dark brows rises and he steps closer, pressing their chests together again. He doesn't have the armor on his chest and shoulders, just a dark tunic, and she's hyperaware of how close that puts them. What is his game? She's seen him flinch from casual touches, seen him embrace the rage the lyrium fire in his veins sets off, but she's never seen him come so close to seeking out another's touch. It makes her mind swim with questions and uncomfortable, shivering emotions that she shoves aside before she can identify them.

"What is it you want, Hawke?" he asks. This time that sharp edge of his voice has something beneath, a husky quality that sets her blood racing and her skin prickling. Hawke doesn't even realize her hands are against his chest until one of his gauntlets rises, the pricking fingertips brushing across the back of her glove.

She shoves him away. "I said, go get your sword," she snarls. "We're going to Lowtown."

The corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk that she wants to bite and taste and punch bloody. "As you wish," he answers, eyes flicking over her before he bows his head and lets the hair fall to conceal his gaze as he turns to retrieve his weapon and the missing pieces of his armor.

Blighted lofty bastard. She wants to twist his hair in her hands and claw his back, to make him beg for her. Then he'll know that he's not so much better than everyone else, that he sweats and wants and begs like any man does for a woman's hands and mouth and body. That she wants him so much- that untouchable lyrium-laced skin and that searing vicious stare that haunt her dreams- makes her hate him all the more.

Her eyes remain on him as he returns, sheathing the greatsword across his shoulders in an agile slicing movement that makes the lean muscles of his arms ripple under her gaze. Impatient, she whirls away, feeling the pool of heat growing in her stomach at the sight of him. She marches out the door and rolls her hips more than usual, feeling the snap of her armor's leather skirt against her thighs. A feral grin stretches her lips when he remains a few paces behind her for a long moment.

Just as she turns the corner to cut through the Merchants' Guild square, a popular hangout for gangs hoping to catch a stray dwarf leaving a late night of accounting, a steel-encased hand grips her arm and lifts it. The world spins a second and her back slams into a wall. A second cold metal hand covers her mouth and she sees Fenris' green eyes over it, his face close to hers. He leans forward without removing the hand from her mouth, even as the other holds her hands steady.

Hawke shivers when his lips brush her ear, unable to control herself, and he pushes closer to her until their hips bump together. "I'm going to let go of your mouth," he murmurs. "Don't yell. I saw Tevinters in there."

He releases her mouth but remains just as close, the hand now shifting to grip her waist. She feels the claws, knows how easy it would be for him to snap the laces and straps of her armor with his fingertips. His cheek doesn't quite touch hers, but she can feel the heat of his skin, the very edge of his scant stubble, the brush of his hair against her face. And his breath against her ear.

Not to be outdone, she moves her mouth to his ear, hovering over it and she whispers, "Let's go kill them." She lets her lips brush against the tender flesh of his earlobe and he shudders.

The hand on her waist tightens and he slams her against the wall again, driving her up and pinning her with his hips. Green eyes flash at her and she stares down at him from this new vantage, one of her legs curling around his waist to keep her aloft, the other trapped between his thigh and the wall. A snarl forms on his lips, silent in the night, but she can feel the coiled tension of his muscles and the hard pressure between his legs throbbing in time to his racing pulse.

"We need to gather a greater force," he hisses, brows drawn together to darken his gaze. "They are too numerous."

Emboldened by his body's reaction to their proximity she smirks at him and tilts her face down until their noses almost brush against each other. "Either way, don't you have to put me down?" she murmurs.

"Vasta fas," he growls, and she can almost feel the shape of the foreign curse against her lips. The hand that had held her waist scrapes down along her thigh, leaving tiny biting scratches where the pointed tips of his gauntlets touch her skin. His stolen touch lasts only a second before he steps back, letting her drop to an agile crouch. He fixes her with a dark glare and she feels smug satisfaction that she's broken his calm tonight.

Her eyes dart to count the men in the courtyard and she sees only eight. As good as their equipment is, she knows she has the skill to defeat them. Before Fenris can grab her again, she dashes into the shadows and flings a flask that explodes in a hallucinogenic mist to stun them as they stand grouped together. She sprints forward with her knives at the ready, dropping to roll to the ground and sever two men's Achilles tendons and spinning through the legs of a third, her daggers sinking into the flesh of his neck just above the collar of his armor.

Just as the stunning effects of the flask wear off she hears a whistle and Fenris sprints in shouting vicious curses in his native language that make every head turn toward him. As ever, his brutality dazzles her, the way he takes a fearless leap, lifting his sword high and hammering it _through_ a man, armor and all, the impact sending shockwaves that knock two nearby rogues to their backs. She jumps on one as he sweeps his weapon sideways, away from her, decapitating the other one as he struggles to his feet. In the same motion he swats an arrow aside with a ping and she realizes that reinforcements are rushing from a boarding house, shouting.

She ducks and weaves, knives sinking into the weak points of armor or the unguarded throats of the men swarming after Fenris. His tattoos flare as his blade shears through several, now in only one hand as the other sinks through the chest of a man. When arrows start flying toward him she sprints and somersaults, landing atop the archer with both feet on his chest and both blades in his throat. A man flies past her as she runs for the other archer, his dead body bowling the living man over so that Hawke only needs to kick him in the nose and drive the bones into his brain. She turns to rejoin the main fray but sees that only one man stands, his shield hanging useless from a broken arm for a second before Fenris lifts him by the neck and she hears that series of wet pops that indicates a broken neck or crushed throat or some combination of the two.

He tosses the man aside and she notices several gashes in his arms where blood wells over the lyrium marks. Green eyes stare at her, fierce and furious as he storms toward her.

"You fool," he snarls, "What were you thinking? You could have gotten us both killed, or worse! How could you be so foolish?"

"You're obviously fit enough to yell at me," she snaps, sheathing her daggers and walking up to him with her fists clenched. She wants to punch him and haul him into an alley, to beg him to take her and to make him beg her. She wants to kill him and kiss him in the same breath.

Fenris grabs the front of her armor, twisting it in his fingers and shouts in her face. "I told you not to attack and you did not listen to me and now-"

"We're still alive," she returns, grabbing his wrist and trying to pull his hand away. His hold is too strong and she remembers yet again that he's much stronger than she is, that he could lift her in the air without effort. "Why must you disagree with every decision I make?"

"Because you choose foolishly, time and again. You persist in recklessly endangering both of our lives and then make reckless choices about the company you keep and the people you associate with," he snarls, giving her a shake. She grips his hand with both of hers now, struggling to remove his iron fingers, but they do not budge.

"You're one of those people," she hisses, pushing her face close to his. "What, you have a problem with my other friends because they're mages? We've all had hard lives. At least you don't remember your failures!"

Green eyes narrow further. "Do you think helping blood mages escape Templars will bring your sister back?"

That does it. Her fist snaps out and connects with his jaw just as her knee jerks into his groin. He gasps at the sudden pain she inflicts to his tender areas and staggers back, releasing her to double over his crotch. Before he can catch his breath she flees back to the mansion, not even stopping to loot the bodies of her dead foes.

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><p>AN: So maybe not THAT far off-canon. I mean, they can't be getting it going too early, now!


	3. Brawls

**Warnings:** sexy, teasy sensuality, violence, bitchiness

Rating will rise with the next chapter!

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><p>Hawke blinks when Fenris arrives at her door a few nights after she kneed him, fully armed and armored. He stares at her with his unperturbed green eyes and neither one says a word about the last time they saw each other. He comes by a few nights a week and they walk out into the streets to hunt gangs, tearing through thugs in perfect, vicious unison. It becomes routine, taking the place of their arguments at his house. Eventually the burning fury over her siblings' deaths becomes cold, sharp and frigid. Still, he comes by night after night and she finds herself craving the outings, needing to kill to control the new burning that builds in her each time she watches him in battle, or sees rage fill his green eyes, or hears the snarl shaping his deep voice and turning his words to vicious missiles. She needs this combination of proximity and distance, and so she convinces herself that fighting alongside him can satisfy those cravings for more.<p>

For over a year, it works. Until one early autumn night they walk from Darktown to the Docks to Lowtown, checking every corner and peering down alleyways, and as they find themselves full circle in Hightown, she realizes that the streets are empty. The entire city is empty of gang activity, whether because of them or because it's just a quiet night, it doesn't matter. There's no one to kill.

"There's no one out," she mutters, scowling and tightening her fists. She needs to kill someone after tonight's round of Wicked Grace, listening to Fenris and Anders snipe at each other for two hours.

She can keep him at arm's length, can maintain that precious distance she needs while at the same time having proximity enough to satisfy her craving for him. They argue often enough, brutal bouts of verbal abuses that both hurl with equal fervor, but it doesn't come to blows. One or the other leaves before that can happen and she's relieved. Maker only knows what would happen if she dared a physical confrontation, to get so close to him.

He sighs, making his hair rustle away from his eyes for a moment. "Perhaps we missed some alley in the slums?" he asks, though he doesn't sound hopeful, shrugging in the courtyard of the Hightown Estates, a few yards away from his stolen mansion.

Their eyes meet. Her hands tighten at her sides. "We didn't," she snaps. Frustration makes her nerves ache and sing. She scowls at him. "What now?"

"Come," he says, motioning for her to follow as he walks up to his door and pushes it open. She hesitates a moment but he stops in the doorway to look over his shoulder and her feet move toward him of their own accord. The Blight take him and that stare.

A chair from somewhere else in the mansion has been dragged over the broken tiles to sit in front of the fire opposite his usual chair. He gestures toward it as he hunts through his shelves for a bottle of wine and she recognizes the return to that too-comfortable ritual. She shivers and takes the bottle when he passes it, takes too long a drink to set her frayed nerves at ease.

"Do you like it?" he asks her, deep voice breaking through the furious circles her mind keeps spinning.

She takes another sip, tasting it this time, surprised at the rich, smooth flavor. It's much better than anything they've had before. Her eyes dart to meet his and narrow to restrain any flush from rising to her cheeks as she passes the bottle back to him. "It's very good. What is it?"

He shrugs and looks at the label, tracing an ornate leaf with his fingertip. "The last bottle of the Aggregio," he says. His eyes meet hers and she sees things below that viciousness that frighten her, aspects of a troubled soul that remind her too much of herself. "Seven years since I escaped. Tonight makes seven years."

"How?" she asks, not meaning to sound eager. She knows it must be a story full of blood, and if she can't kill anything a war story is the next best thing.

His penetrating gaze lingers for a long moment and he lets his chin rest on his hand as he stares at her. Then he takes a languid sip from the bottle and offers it to her with a smirk. "Not many beautiful women want to hear stories about death and destruction," he comments.

Her hand tightens around the bottle as she lifts it and she takes a larger gulp, not caring that it's too good to waste like this. Since when has he become suave? Her teeth grind together and she glares at him. "What did you say?" she asks, clutching the wine between them as if to ward him away. That precious distance she's worked so hard to maintain crumbles like an old bridge under her feet and the rapid falling sensation that dizzies her.

"I said that you are beautiful," he answers, still watching her face. That smirk of his grows smug at her flustered appearance and enrages her.

She shoves the bottle at him and stands up as she starts yelling, lightheaded from the wine or his proximity or both. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snarls, unable to come up with any real reason to be angry except that he's ruined that precarious balance with just one word. But that ruin and the terror that ensues seems reason enough to be livid. "You just can't ever let up. If it's not the mages, it's the magisters, or it's the rest of my friends, you know: the ones who don't berate me all the time."

The bottle slams on the tabletop with a resounding thud and he stands as well, just as furious. "How can you be angry at me for paying you a compliment, woman?" he growls, motioning with both hands clawing at the air in frustration. "What in the hell is wrong with _you_?"

Hawke shakes her head and storms out before she decides to punch him, but he catches up to her on the landing of the stairs. He grabs her shoulder to turn her around and his hand presses against her jaw, pulling her face too near his. She realizes that he doesn't have his gauntlets on, that it's his actual fingers bruising her, his warm skin against hers.

She punches him.

As he staggers back, she jumps over the railing sprinting for the door. He seems to be expecting it, and jumps after her, chasing her over the familiar obstacles and colliding with her, shoving her face-first against the wall. She smacks his temple with her elbow and he releases her, a vicious smile on his face as he squares off and starts circling to the left. She recognizes the debris he means to steer her into and darts forward, hooking her foot around his knee and striking out at his neck with her hands. He sidesteps her and she could swear she hears a low growl as he smirks and tosses hair out of his eyes.

He throws a punch at her and she ducks, slamming the heel of her hand toward his stomach and holding when she realizes the metal of his chestplate will only damage her hand. They exchange blows, neither landing any sort of decent hit, for almost an hour, circling each other with vicious, bloodthirsty smiles. The fight ends when she shoves him against the wall and he grabs both of her biceps, spinning them so their positions reverse.

With his face close to hers he murmurs, "You should learn to take a compliment."

Her head drops back against the wall and she stares at him through narrowed eyes, as if to size up the truth of his words. But his eyes, furious as they are, contain no trace of mockery or falsehood. There is nothing but vicious hunger in his gaze. Overwhelmed, she shoves him back and flees the mansion.

But she comes back the next night to fight again.

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><p>Fenris hates how soft her skin feels under his knuckles and that lovely sharp gasp in his ear. He hates how her long legs wrap around his and how her eyes flash heat and viciousness and how delicate but strong her arms and hips and face feel in his hands. Most of all, he hates that he can feel all of these things every night as they spar, how this ritual of theirs gives him every sensation of her body that he wants to enjoy while putting those precious touches in the wrong context. He revels in it at the same time: he does not have to flinch from physical contact because it is battle, he gets to feel her and hold her against him all while beating that infernal coolness from her eyes and stoking her rage.<p>

Every night Hawke comes to him like a lover and they brawl in the open spaces of his mansion, breaking still more furniture and halting only when one pins the other to a wall or floor or some surface. He tries to catch her so they're face-to-face, knowing that in doing so he taunts himself with proximity as much as he taunts her. It is some reckless, destructive urge that propels him, a demon-may-care attitude that he's always had about fighting. He tells himself when he lies aching in his bed at night that they _are_ fighting and that's why he flings himself into it with all his skill and little fear for consequence.

As a slave, it always seemed a better fate to die in battle, but his pride prevents him from being sloppy. Instead, he allows that vicious disregard for life to propel him forward where others would falter. The more wounds he suffers the harder he fights and with his skill, he has never lost in combat to his recollection. Short as that may be.

It follows a sort of script when she arrives, the way he paces around until he hears the click of the door behind her, and then he moves out onto the landing as she steps into the main room. Her face will tip back and she'll say his name and he will meet her bright eyes across that gloomy space and answer, "Hawke." For a moment of varying length they will stare at each other and then, at the same time, both will move toward each other, stripping away their outer armor until they stand in tunics and leggings with bare hands. Then they meet at the landing and the fight begins.

The nights follow, one after the other, without words or even arguments, stretching into months. But as the seasons change in the city and winter melts off in hotter, hazier days, the tensions in Kirkwall rise and he sees less of her during the days as she spends time meeting with Aveline and the Viscount, skipping Wicked Grace to spend the evenings being dragged to frivolous balls by her mother in an effort to find her a suitable husband.

One night, after being gone a week, she storms into his mansion and yells his name so loud that he startles, hurrying to the landing to see her entrance. She stalks in wearing a dress, her hair woven with flowers and her face flushed with fury and makeup. He stares at her, eyes taking in the long silk skirts, the darkened curl of her lashes over flashing eyes and the heave of her chest against the low neckline of the gown.

"Hawke?" he says, unable to hide the note of surprise in his voice. His throat feels dry.

With tight fingers hauling the fabric away from the floor she ascends the stairs as he remains rooted in place, unable to tear his eyes from her. As much as the rich fabric of the dress and the fashionable bare shoulders name her for the height of noble fashion, the rich blue color and lack of embellishment fits Hawke just as perfectly as the silver pendant of the Amell crest that hangs between her breasts. As she approaches he smells the expensive perfume from Orlais mingling with the fresh flowers and fresh sweat. He notices the hem of her gown is dirty and even torn in places and presumes she ran over to his house.

"If you say one word, I'll kill you," she hisses, stepping up as close as they do before starting a fight.

He can't help smirking, though he tries to keep his eyes and thoughts from her well-displayed cleavage as it presses against his chest. "Perish the thought," he murmurs, tilting his face closer to hers although he knows how unsafe it is to do so, having been deprived of their fights so much this summer and now to have her here dressed like _this._

"I need you to..." she says, eyes lowering as her gaze falls across his face, to settle on his lips. This is the moment when, at the end of every fight, one or the other pushes away and storms off. He can't push her away this time and she doesn't push him away and his heart hammers with anticipation. But she shifts her head back a trifle and her eyes meet his. "Can you help me tomorrow?"

Fenris nods, a short jerk of his chin. He hates this spell she's cast, hates that his eyes drift back to her mouth as his hands brush against the soft fabric that hangs over her hips. It occurs to him in a sudden flash that other men saw her in this, danced with her, flirted with her, _touched_ his Hawke and that this has been going on all summer. Fury descends over him and the silk in his hands bunches as his fists close, dragging her close as he snarls.

"Is this what you wear while your mother whores you out for a title?" he growls, his mouth so close to hers that their lips brush as he speaks.

For a second her eyes widen, but then they narrow on his face and her hands grasp the shoulders of his vest, keeping him as close as he's hauled her. "Jealous you don't have the title it takes to lift my skirts?" she snaps.

She must know she's baited him too far, he thinks, dizzy. This game of unspoken words and stolen touches has gone on long enough and with just one mocking question, she breaks that fragile barrier they've built. He bites her lips and crushes his mouth over hers, his fingers delving into the fabric of her gown until he feels the sharp, familiar bones of her hips outlined in silk and he grips with bruising force. Her arms circle his neck, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging, and she arches against him as her mouth opens for his, her tongue hot and vicious against his.

There's no sound but the roar of blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart as he kisses her and drags a hand from her hip to cup her breast, his thumb hooking the fabric downward so he can feel her nipple harden in his palm. She hisses against his mouth and her nails bite into his neck, her leg sliding between his thighs to press against the aching hardness of his groin.

"Marian!" a horrified voice cries out, resounding through the entire hall. They tear apart with a gasp and Hawke pulls her dress back in place before he can get a decent glimpse of her.

A dignified woman with gray hair who looks like a much older version of Bethany stands in the doorway with a look of fury and mortification on her face. Beside her Aveline looks away with a small smile and red cheeks, dressed in ceremonial armor for the occasion. Not before she catches his eye and winks at him while Hawke fixes the laces at the front of her gown.

"Hello, Mother," Hawke says, her tone frosty as she moves away from him, descending the stairs with swift, furious steps.

He watches her move away and cannot retreat or follow, standing there staring like a simpleton. He hears the low, sharp hiss of voices and can make out the words with his sharp hearing.

"You insulted Messere duPuis and left the Viscount's ball without notifying anyone, including his son Seamus, who was next to dance with you," her mother snaps at her, "And then I find you in this filthy place letting an elf put his hands all over you like a common whore."

"Seamus prefers men," Hawke answers in the same cold tone, eyes glinting in the light as she crosses the room. "And Fenris can hear you."

Leandra Hawke fixes him with a cold stare that assures him of where her daughter's gaze came from.

The three women make their exit as Aveline mouths 'sorry' and Hawke throws a final heated, vicious stare at him. He's struck with the force of her gaze, with the sense that she is not done with him. And though he waits for her to return until he's nodding off at dawn, she doesn't come back that night, leaving him furious and aching with need for her that he cannot relieve.


	4. Bereavement

Thank you for your reviews, my pretties. This one's for you.

**Warnings:** SMUT, death, angst, language, violence, post-Leandra Hawke breakdown

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><p>Fenris hates himself as he climbs over the roof and through Hawke's window, cursing the replaying image in his mind of the furious fire in her narrowed eyes and the vicious hitch in her voice as she sneered at Hadriana's cooling corpse. He hates himself as he paces the room, back and forth in front of her fireplace as he waits for her because he is waiting for her as a slave waits, more enslaved by her than any Magister could hope to have him, and of his own free will. He hates how his feet falter at the whiff of her skin as she enters, the scent of sweat and blood still lingering over that faint odor of night-blooming orchids that seemed to permeate her.<p>

"Where the hell have you been?" she snaps, kicking the door shut behind her and tossing the pile of her weapons and armor into the corner. "I've scoured the bloody city looking for you."

He turns to her and glares. "This is your fault," he snarls, pointing at her. He feels his eyes narrow and thrills to see her eyes narrow in response. "I think of you constantly. You are like the Magisters, just as demanding and far more cruel. Hadriana denied me meals and hounded my sleep but you- I deny my own food and am unable to sleep because of you."

"How is it my fault that you're not eating and sleeping?" she demands. She steps closer, but not close enough to touch. He's keenly aware of the red robe she wears, of the silken material, and how similar it must feel to the dress she wore when he kissed her weeks ago.

"_Venhedis_," he growls, attempting to step around her before that vicious heat of her can consume him. "This is not why I came."

"So why did you come?" Hawke's hand flashes out and grips his arm, her thumb tracing the arch of one of the swirls of lyrium in his flesh. The touch is too familiar, too enticing to ignore. When her hand wraps around his arm Fenris feels the heated buzz of liquid lyrium lighting under his skin. He's furious at her for for ensnaring him, furious that her touch rouses every emotion in his limited spectrum and furious because until this moment the blaze of his tattoos has always seared agony into him and now the pain is different and aching and centered around his want for her. When he shoves her against the wall she shoves him back, tossing her head back and clenching her fists as if preparing for a fight. He lunges toward her and grabs her waist with one hand, the back of her head with the other, fingers digging into her hair.

Startled at the gesture, he hesitates and stares with wide eyes as she leans back against his hold with a bewildered expression. Her hands press against his chest but don't push him away. She seems as frozen as he does for a long moment as both struggle for some word or action. Fenris doesn't know what he expects, doesn't even dare to hope, his muscles tensed in case of the worst.

"What are you doing?" she asks in a sharp voice. Still, she doesn't struggle or pull out of his hold, her hands moving to fist around the oiled leather covering his shoulders and her chin tilting up to put their faces closer.

"What do you think?" he murmurs, staring at her face as his hand shifts and the palm of his gauntlet brushes against her cheek. He closes the last inch between them slowly, giving her time to withdraw even as he revels in her entrapment, her tension as he leans toward her mouth. Her eyes remain steady on his throughout, her body unflinching, but he can feel the quivering anticipation of her muscles through the silk of her robe. She doesn't breathe and neither does he, watching her in that last second before his lips can touch hers, sinking into her eyes.

He kisses her, pulling her body against his as her arms reach around his neck to grip him in return. The fierce yet gentle way she grasps him, the softness of her mouth as it grows pliant under his, all of it seems such a contrast from that vicious woman he obsesses over. And that he can drink in such a moment, experience this vulnerable facet of her and explore what others do not know exists makes him want her more.

His hand slides under her hip until his gauntlet snags in the fabric covering her rear and he presses his fingers against the soft flesh, lifting her off her feet without pulling his mouth away from hers. Her legs wrap around his waist, her hips against his, her tongue brushing against his with growing hunger. Fenris turns toward the bed and presses her down against the coverlet, growling into the kiss when her legs tighten around him as her back compresses the thick down of her blankets. Deft fingers dance over the buckles and harnesses and she strips him to the skin within seconds, her mouth finding other bare skin when the removal of clothing forces them to break their endless kiss. Each time she pulls such an obstacle free (his chest piece, his tunic) he dives back to her lips, pulling her mouth away from his wrist or stomach to reclaim it.

It is not perfect by any means. He doesn't lean back far enough, loath to lose the feel of her against him, and she bumps his nose with his chest piece. His gauntlet tears the fabric of her robe and when he tries to apologize she tosses the gauntlet aside with a chunk of red silk still attached and laughs against his lips. A discarded piece of armor clanks against something, but neither of them looks up to see what damage it may have caused.

Their coupling is like nothing he ever imagined, nothing he could have pictured her or himself capable of having. He kisses her face and neck as he presses inside of her, bare hands brushing over her skin as if in a dream. Her lips tremble against his ear, murmuring his name, and they cling to one another in the sheets. As difficult as it is not to consume her he tries to keep a slow pace, but she urges him to let loose, to devour her with his mouth and hands and body, and soon they gasp into each other's mouths. The first shivers within her as she builds up send him to a frenzy and she moans into their kiss. Their backs arch, pressing their chests together at the same moment, eyes clenched shut against the brilliant lyrium flare and the force of their shared climax.

The images shatter and strike at him like walls of breaking glass, snatches of-_red haired sister girl, sunlit courtyard, barking dogs-weighty sword, stumbling steps-kind eyes, mother, warmth smelling of soap and herbs-sweat leaking from dark pieces of hair before he flips them from his eyes and strikes at his opponent_.

Her serious eyes meet his a moment later and he draws her close again, his desire still too strong to pull away. Again and again he tests himself with her body, drowsing with her weight on his chest and waking when his loins stir to life. Each time the memories come flooding in, and he feels he might be able to cling to them, but as that last blazing moment fades away the images and sounds and smells scatter out of his reach. He loses count of how many times he reaches for her before he's spent hour later. Much as he wants to sleep, holding her back to his chest with an arm around her waist feeling warm and sated, he cannot. He stares at the early rays of dawn through her window and tries to remember, but he can't.

After long hours of staring, holding onto her, he gets up and searches for his clothes, dressing as he gathers bits and pieces. He doesn't feel any hate for her anymore, just guilt and sorrow. He's a coward, he knows, and he only hates himself as he discovers that his pants- with the belt attached- have torn the small Amell crest over her desk off the wall and that was the crash they heard. He sets it down on her desk and stares as he pulls his clothes and then his armor on, saving his gauntlets for last. The scrap of red silk still clings in the sharp fingertips of his right hand one and after a moment he snatches up both the crest and the silk, retreating to sit in front of her fireplace and stoke the blaze there. He alternates between turning the crest over and over in his hands and brushing the silk against his lips as if it's her skin. Eventually he fastens the crest to his belt and focuses on that red scrap of her robe. The sun creeps higher in her windows and falls across her bed at noontime and he's still sitting there with the silk when she stirs and twists to check the space beside her.

When she realizes it's empty she sits up and stares at him, eyes narrowed on the piece of her robe in his armored hands. "What are you doing?" she asks.

He shakes his head, gathering his voice. "This was a mistake," he says, managing not to whisper the words. His chest feels full of steel, heavy and cold as he presses onward. "It's too much. Too soon. I... I can't." Fenris tries to stare at her, to meet the brilliance of her gaze and see the stir of viciousness returning as her lips press into a line and she pulls her smallclothes on, retrieving them from Maker-knows-where among the tangled sheets.

"Was it that bad? Was that why you kept at me all night?" she asks, strapping that fabric band around her breasts to hide them from his sight. He can still see the lean planes of her hard stomach, the definition of every muscle apparent from her acrobatic fighting style.

Although he promised himself he wouldn't touch her he steps forward then, pulling her against him and kissing her again. His hands cup her face and tangle in her hair as she makes a noise of shock or protest against his mouth. He doesn't care because she relaxes into his embrace and returns his kiss, her lips parting at his insistence so he can memorize her again with his lips and teeth and tongue. She shivers when one of his hands trails down her back and grips her waist, the metal scraping gently across her bare skin and holding her in place. With a growl, he pulls back before he can return to her bed and the torture of having his memories come and go in an instant.

Both of them breathe hard as he whirls away, incapable of looking at her face. "I can't do this," he says.

"Was it the lyrium?" Hawke asks, an unexpected flat note to her voice without any pity or hatred, just rational comprehension.

Fenris looks at her over his shoulder through the pale edges of his hair and for a moment sees dark hair instead, lanky and damp with sweat. He holds in a shudder. "No. It's... the memories. They returned while we were-" he gestures at the bed, unable to finish the thought as he eyes narrow. He hangs his head, expecting that at any moment the dam will break and she will lunge and fight him and he won't even try to defend himself. He deserves for her to beat him with her fists and feet, to endure any pains she wants to inflict on him.

"Did you want to try another six or seven times to be sure?" she asks in a sarcastic tone. His head snaps up to look at her mussed hair and bruised lips and crossed arms pressing her breasts together unintentionally. He almost says yes, but then he realizes how little she cares for his predicament at this moment and remembers his fury for her.

"Clearly you do not know or care how upsetting this is for me, to remember what I have lost and then to have it snatched away from me in the next moment," he snarls, stalking forward and twisting her hair in one hand, not realizing that he clutches the silk there still and the red tangles into her hair like a ribbon. For a moment the ribbon looks green and her hair a vibrant red, her face elven and young and frightened, and then Hawke returns, a ferocious woman with her neck arched proudly and her eyes flashing with fury.

Need returns to him like a monsoon crashing through the jungle and this time when he kisses her it is the fierce, vicious kiss they shared in his house, the sort of brutal, frenzied touch that he would have expected in their lovemaking. When he shoves her down against the bed she snarls and bites his ear, making him shudder. His teeth sink into her neck and she moans as his gauntlet tears her breastband and the leather palm scrapes across her nipple. She twists them over so she straddles his hips and pulls his straining hardness from his pants, sliding down his length in one swift thrust that arches both backs and tears shouts from both throats. Fenris sits up against her, metal-clad arms around her back leaving deep scratches as he clings to her, his mouth trailing bites and heat over her neck and chest as she flexes her hips with his. Her teeth cling to his neck, her tongue against the skin caught there and her hands grip his hair as heat and moisture clench around him in waves and he falls with her into the Void.

The memories surge with him and he bites her neck as well until his teeth puncture her skin and he tastes blood on his tongue.

They lean back, gulping for air as their eyes meet and as he feels his gaze sadden and soften, he sees hers harden. He shakes his head, lips sticky with her blood, and withdraws when his body betrays him, hardening and begging for more while still inside of hers. For a second he stares at the damage he's done, at the torn teethmarks on the left side of her neck leaking dual trickles of blood to run over her bruised breasts.

"I can't," he whispers again, turning his head away from her as he stands from the bed, tucking himself back into his pants and trembling as he tries to put his clothes and armor together again.

"Then go," she answers, and her voice is not even deadly. Just quiet, shaken. He stares at her and she turns her head, eyes flashing too bright in the combined sunlight and firelight before her hair hangs in front of them. As he shifts toward her she looks up and he sees tears flooding the vicious depths of her gaze. Her lips draw into a line and she speaks through gritted teeth one insistent syllable: "_Go_."

His shoulders slump and Fenris wants to reach out to her again but he can't, so he reaches down to retrieve that piece of cloth from where he dropped it on the floor at her feet. He looks up at her as he crouches in front of her knees, shivering as he smells the musk of her, still damp and so near. But he stands when her stare tightens to a scowl and her arms move to cover her breasts just as her legs cross to hide the curls between her legs from him. He walks from her room, past the sharp gasp of her mother and the awkward greeting of the dwarven manservant, ignoring their stares as he exits through her front door.

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><p>When they leave Quentin's lair in the sewers, Hawke runs home at top speed, not hesitating as Aveline and Anders both cry out for her to wait. The scent of blood and decay clings to her clothes and skin and hair and she bursts through the doors of her Estate still covered in gore from the battle and from her dying patchwork of a mother. The room seems to swim as Bodahn and Orana rush toward her and she snarls for them to draw a bath.<p>

"Make it scalding," she hisses, and both of them hurry off as she storms up to the ornamental bottles of spirits gifted by her friends over the years, tearing the cap off one and draining the bottle in a searing gulp. The scream of Bethany's death is a roar now, one she tries to drown without success. She flings the bottle against the wall just like Fenris did the first time she visited him, sending a spray of amber liquid and glass across the carpet. After a moment she screams and kicks the chair into pieces. Abruptly, as wood shatters in splinters around her armored shins, she drops to her knees and grips her head in her hands, shaking. But she can't hold it in. Her hands slide back to her daggers and she slams both into the carpet in front of her, dragging the blades through the expensive plush rugs Leandra wanted so badly, an exact replica of her childhood home. Eyes burning, she drops the blades to stare at her trembling hands and then, with another gritted scream, she flings the blades to score deep in the wooden mantle of the fireplace one at a time.

The moment the daggers leave her hands she hears a shuffle of footsteps on the carpet. Strong, metallic hands close around her shoulders and haul her upward. "Get up," his voice murmurs against her ear, and the shock of the physical pleasure it evokes makes her struggle, elbows and hands flailing as her feet kick. His arms wrap around her, hands gripping her wrists to hold her still.

Hawke tries to pull out of his grasp, but he holds her steady. She can't see. The world has become a blur of swimming lights and streaky colors, all of it red- the red of the Amell crest and the drapes and the carpet and the blood that covers her. Her ears ring and her throat feels raw and she might be screaming still as he hauls her wild, struggling form up the stairs. She continues to fight him as he strips her armor off and thrusts it at Orana.

"Burn it," he growls and she sees the delicate elf girl rush off with terror in her eyes, stumbling under the burden.

Fenris grabs her again, his hands leaving fresh, new bruises on her shoulders and legs to mingle with the fading ones from their night together and tosses her into burning water, still in her shirt and smallclothes. She tries to escape the water but he pushes her down in it, his clawed gauntlets ripping through her remaining clothes so the fabric swirls in the water like hunks of bleeding, rotten flesh. Her stomach turns and she lunges to vomit over the side of the tub, retching and gagging as he combs her soggy hair away from her forehead with cold metal hands.

When her stomach is empty she tries to break free of him again, to get out of the tub though in her frenzy she has no idea where she means to go. Metal clatters on the floor a few feet away, echoing on the tiles of the bathing chamber, and out of the corner of her eye she sees his other gauntlet go flying in the same direction as the first. His hands feel warm in comparison to the gloves and she struggles against this as well, hating his heat and presence in equal measure. She screams again, ragged and bleeding, and a second later water sloshes into her face and his limbs weigh against hers in the tub. He pins her to the side, holding both her hands in one of his. Droplets bead over the lyrium swirls on his bare chest and she glimpses the vivid green and white of his eyes and hair as he scrubs blood away from her shoulders and arms with a washrag.

He isn't gentle, attacking each spot of blood with the same viciousness he attacked those corpses with, knees holding her hips down until her struggles weaken when he reaches her collarbone. The cloth moves to her face, scrubbing stains from her cheeks as his mouth whispers against her ear in his strange Tevinter language. Although she can't understand the words, his tone is at once fierce and tender, and in some coherent part of her brain she recognizes that he's making promises to her and uttering his sorrow for her loss.

The water splashes as she kicks her legs against this and he shifts off her to cradle her body against his chest, strong arms gripping her shoulders with enough force to crack the bones. She weeps, incoherent, sometimes tearing at his skin with her fingernails and other times pounding her fist against his chest. He clings to her through it all, wrapping them in towels without letting go of her when the water cools. The world spins again as he lifts her and settles when her bed fluffs up around them. Still tangled in towels and damp, she sobs and screams against his chest as he holds her steady against the frantic beat of his heart, unable to appreciate the significance of his bare skin against hers. His mouth presses to her brow and her cheeks, skimming away from her lips to her ear and the soothing rumble of his nonsense language fills her ears until she falls asleep.

When she wakes up breathing slowly around the heavy ache of loss in her chest, he's gone.


	5. Brutality

A/N: I hope this does a good job of capturing character development, drama, and smut as well as the off-canon rivalmance that centers around Hawke and Fenris not being able to control their physical intimacy but trying to deny that it could be anything more out of mutual grouchiness and evasiveness.

Love to the reviewers, special shoutout to T.I.M.

**Warnings:** smut, Fenris hating on Anders, language, violence, angst

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><p>Hawke hisses when the blade slides through her belly, eyes narrowing on the fierce scarlet of the Arishok's gaze. Blood stains her teeth as she gives him a feral grin and drips from the corner of her mouth down her chin in a line. The giant Qunari sneers at her and his sword arm snaps upward, the blade catching under her ribs and hauling her entire body upward so she dangles with helpless legs above him. She can feel every pulse of her heart, so close to that wicked blade, and for a moment wishes that he would cleave through her, that the final nick will come and set her free.<p>

Dimly, through graying consciousness, she hears the gasps and weeping of nobles and the shouts and curses of her friends. One voice snaps out over the rest, deep and oddly ragged: "No! I will not allow it!" She's never heard Fenris sound so panicked, she thinks, with a sort of strange distance. One of her palms wraps around the Arishok's blade to keep it from tearing through her too much and with some effort, she twists until she can press her feet to his neck and shove herself off. She coughs blood in the giant's face as she pulls off the blade, and it lands in his eyes. While he is blinded she twists around behind him and slams her dagger between the first and second vertebrae of his back, the point shucking inward until it slides into the softness of his brain. He falls so suddenly and with such force that her blade snaps off in his skull. How Varric will love re-telling this story.

As the Arishok falls she feels the tingle of Anders' healing magic lacing up through her side, already patching up the damage from that blade. As soon as she can bend forward she does so, lifting the Qunari's blade from his hand and gripping the pommel, holding it aloft with a wordless snarl of victory. It takes every ounce of her strength to lift the thing, but she does so anyway, aware of the tearing ache in her back and the trickle of blood as she tears the knitting flesh of her stomach wound. Hawke utters another roar as she watches the remaining Qunari leave, and none approach her to request the Arishok's blade.

The Keep empties in increments, except for her companions. Anders hovers nearby, making irritating sounds of concern while Aveline's strong arm grips her shoulders in what is half a hug, half keeping her standing. Varric keeps Merrill from lunging too close and Fenris broods a few feet away, refusing to meet her eyes. Isabela wrings her hands and grinds her teeth and approaches.

"Hawke," says the pirate, "I am _so_ sor-_mmph_!" She staggers back when Hawke's fist connects with her face at full force, wincing and lifting her fingers toward the forming bruises on her cheek. "I deserved that," she admits, looking away from the glares everyone else levels at her.

"No," snarls Hawke, tearing the hem of her shirt from Ander's hands and lifting it to reveal the half-healed mess of her stomach. "You deserve _this_."

No one speaks, not even Isabela, though her amber eyes widen at the sight of the wound. It's a testament to Anders' skill as a healer that Hawke is on her feet, that she's not already dead of blood loss. In spite of the mage's haste and skill, blood still oozes from many gaps as he attempts to knit each individual muscle together. And though the movement of her punching the pirate serves to send a fresh gush of blood forth, Anders keeps silent for once in his life and just sticks to healing.

After a few moments of silence the pirate hangs her head and leaves the Keep, followed closely by Varric and Merrill. Aveline waits until Hawke can stand on her own before she, too, leaves to check on her guards. Hawke stands alone with Anders prodding her wound gently and Fenris giving her a dark stare from across the room. By the time the three of them leave, the sun is setting behind the Chantry, somber dark creeping through the silent aftermath of the invasion. From the top of the steps of the Keep, Hawke can see many bonfires throughout the city, the pyres for dead citizens and fallen enemies alike. The stench of burning meat and death hangs heavy in the air, thickening the humid summer air.

"If you'd like, I can stay with you tonight," Anders offers, a tone of pleading permeating his words that sets Hawke's teeth on edge. He means well, for all the kicked-puppy looks of adoration he shoots her, but Hawke does not want a tender, mooning man who clings to her. She wants someone vicious and impossible to tame. Her eyes shift for half a moment toward the elf on her other side.

"I will stay," Fenris snarls, moving up on her other side and glaring across her with such force she thinks that she can feel his gaze sear her skin.

Hawke takes a breath and meets Anders' eyes before they can start glowing blue. "You've done all you can," she tells him, waving him away with a hand. "Go see to the people at your clinic."

The apostate gives her a long stare, reaching out to squeeze her hand before he leaves, his staff clicking against the stones of Hightown's streets. She watches him go for a moment before she starts limping down the long flight of stairs. She gets down three steps, holding in a string of curses, and strong arms wrap around her. Fenris hoists her against his chest and totes her down the stairs her up like a bride being carried across the threshold.

"I don't need your help," she grumbles, unable to muster any real force. Her side might be healed enough that she is able to limp a bit, but that doesn't mean it isn't painful.

Green eyes flash down at her as he treks across the courtyard with long strides. "Yes, you do," he answers, his tone short. His chin lifts, gaze jerking away from hers, and she's left staring at the lyrium lines on his throat and wanting to bruise them again with her mouth. He does not set her down even after shoving open the door to her house with his foot and huffing at Bodahn to leave them alone, carrying her up the stairs and depositing her on her bed before he turns to close the door.

"What is your bloody problem?" she growls, hissing as she props herself up on an elbow. Narrowed eyes follow his swift steps as he returns to her bedside, shucking the remnants of her leather armor away and discarding it so she sits in a torn tunic that barely conceals her smalls. She swats at his hands, impatient, and he stills, verdant eyes boring into hers. "Why?" she demands.

Fenris swoops down, gripping her hair and looming over her to pin her with a glare as he tears one gauntlet off with his teeth and spits it onto the bed beside her. "You are a fool," he growls, pulling her in for a vicious kiss, devouring her mouth.

She struggles back, wincing as the movement sends pain through her side. "How am _I_ a fool?" she snaps.

He answers by lunging forward, capturing her mouth in another bruising kiss, his tongue pressing against hers. One of his arms crushes her good side close as the other grips her thigh. She feels the tips of his gauntlets pricking her skin and the tiny points of pain jolt through to her core, sending shivers of heat through her body. Her hands tangle in his hair, gripping it and twisting the fine strands in her fingers and she moans into his mouth in spite of herself. A moment later he pulls back, heated eyes on her face, and presses her back to the pillows with one hand.

"Do not move," he snarls, with a harsh note of command to his voice that makes her shiver with loathing as much as desire. He has absolute control over her body and mind at this moment, and she hates him for using it as much as she hates herself for giving in to his game. His metallic hand trails over her tunic and halts over her breast as the warm skin of his other hand runs up the inside of her thigh. All the while those green eyes stare into hers.

Hawke bites her lip for a moment as his fingers trail over the damp silk of her smalls. "If I didn't fight the Arishok, his men would have attacked everyone," she snaps, her voice hitching as his thumb shifts the fabric aside to brush moisture up from the slit to the small group of aching nerves above, sending jolts of pleasure shocking through her.

Fenris pulls her tunic's laces apart with a growl and lowers his mouth to hover above her breast, breath playing over the pebbled skin. "Still a fool," he answers, tongue flicking across her nipple before he draws it into his mouth, biting and sucking until she whimpers. He lifts his head to stare at her with accusing green eyes, his white hair mussed around his face. "Do you see how weak your body is, woman?" His fingers tear the sodden smallclothes away from her hips and two of them press into her as if to drive the point home. His thumb continues circling that bud of pleasure and she shivers, pinned to the pillows as he watches her face with drawn brows.

"The Arishok didn't do _this_ to me," she gasps, moaning when he curves his fingers inside of her to find the point that makes her back arch, thrusting her breasts toward him again. He might be making her pant for him, but damned if she won't argue her point. Heat builds inside her stomach in waves and she holds in a whimper by hissing, "It was the right choice and I'm still alive, so what does it matter?"

He trails open-mouthed kisses over her breasts and then drags his tongue down her abdominal muscles and past her navel. For a moment his eyes meet hers as his hands shift her legs apart and hook her knees over his shoulders. "You nearly died, you fool," he sneers.

"What are you doing?" she asks, trying to sound furious but only sounding wanton and soft as his breath brushes over the tender skin he exposes. And while she realizes what he means to do, it still comes as a surprise to feel his tongue lave over her, his ungloved fingers inside of her sliding a slow rhythm as his lips find the tender nub just above. The cold metal of his gauntlet pricks against her breast as his fingers curl inside of her heat and she moans his name. His tongue alternates between slow, aching strokes along her folds and flickering across that bundle of nerves. When her breath grows too ragged and her hips lift off the mattress, her moans and pleas incoherent to her own ears, his fingers flex against that place inside as his lips close over her sensitive, swollen bud. Hawke can't tell if it takes seconds or hours, but she trembles and screams for him the pressure of his mouth and hand becomes too much to take.

Her eyes open, hazy, as Fenris sits up and smirks down at her, licking his lips. When he kisses her his tongue has a salty, musky flavor and she shivers.

"Do not be so eager to throw your life away, Hawke," he growls against her lips. His arm presses against her shoulders, holding her in place as he pulls blankets over her naked body. She grabs his hand as he draws toward the fire, away from the bed, and he hesitates, his fingers tangling with hers.

Their eyes meet across the space of their skin, tanned and pale linked with lyrium-lined fingertips. Something flickers in the green and she snatches her hand away, rolling over before he can see her expression falter. She hears the shuffle of his feet around the room and one by one the lamps and candles flick out in puffs of his breath. Just before her eyes can brew a silent, vicious storm of tears, she sees his figure outlined in the starlight of her window as he stands at the opposite side of the bed. With a few clatters and clinks, he strips his armor in swift movements and lies beside her, facing her without allowing their bodies to touch.

For a long moment they lie there in the dark, staring at each other across pillows and a distance too vast to be measured in space. Then his hands fold around hers, as if to hold both in a silent prayer. He shifts forward until their foreheads lean together, and his lips brush across her knuckles and wrists and then her jaw and cheeks and eyes and mouth. At last he falls still, his breath playing over her lips and his soft hair mixed with hers around their cheeks and foreheads, still pressing her hands together in a silent prayer that she doesn't know the words to. She falls asleep like that, and when she awakens, of course, he is gone.

Later that afternoon a messenger arrives with a package and a flustered, flushing Orana brings Hawke a delicately-wrapped pair of black lace smallclothes embroidered with a tiny green wolf on the hip. The only marking is a shakily-drawn F.

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><p>Fenris visits her again, but can never manage to catch her alone. Soon she's on her feet training and before he knows it the air's gone cold and snow dusts the city. He hovers in his mansion alone, only seeing Hawke with others at the Hanged Man, or at Aveline's holiday dinner, though she consents to dance with him.<p>

In front of their companions and various guards and dignitaries, he holds Hawke too close so that her body molds against his and he can feel her breasts- displayed too well in her dark red dress- pressing through his tunic against the planes of his chest. Her eyes, hazy with too much wine, stare into his and they stand holding onto each other after the music stops. When, an hour later, she drags him into the pantry, he doesn't resist her lips on his, pressing against her hands as they fumble over his belt. He growls when she breaks their kiss, staring at her eyes as they flash through the dark, and she drops to her knees with silent grace.

His hands dig into her hair as her mouth closes over his length and he fights down a groan as her tongue rasps along the bottom of his shaft. Then her lips close around him and she draws him in and out in a rhythm, only breaking it to focus on the tender head of his cock and a point of flesh he never knew could send his pulse racing just beneath. Everything narrows to her and that overwhelming suction as he shudders, helpless against her. The heat of her mouth and her nails digging into his behind make him hiss in pleasure, his hands tightening in her hair as his tattoos alight too soon, bringing that terrible receding flash. She swallows his seed, not letting him pull back until he can't think of anything else, gripping her shoulders and panting.

Hawke zips his pants up for him and stands, eyes flashing at him again before she smooths her skirt and leaves the pantry, fixing her hair. He stands in the dark for several more minutes catching his breath, and when he comes out, she has already left.

Days blur by into spring sunshine, days of drinking wine and cursing, flinging half-finished bottles at the walls and into the fire until broken glass litters the room and he can't walk without cutting his feet. He resigns himself to clearing the mess, which only stokes his rage. Damn her, he thinks with every seething breath. Damn her vicious eyes and the predatory curve of her lips and the taut lines of her body. He rakes his hand to pull his hair away from bloodshot eyes time and again, each time he hears even the faintest noise, hoping it might be her.

When she comes to his house again, she does so during the day, with Aveline and the abomination in tow, which further infuriates him. That she would think to bring _guards_, as if the presence of others will somehow erase past events. He knows that she brought that dirty apostate with her in a deliberate gesture of hostility by the faint, vicious smirk on her lips.

"Fenris," she drawls, folding her arms over her chest. As if nothing happened between them. He grits his teeth.

She stands in the front hall, a defiant backward tilt to her chin as she regards him from the bottom of the stairs. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold in the snarl bristling through him, snapping his sword into its sheath on his back and pulling his gauntlets on before vaulting over the railing to land in front of Hawke. The wind of his landing rustles her hair, and though he rises from his crouch only an inch apart from her, she does not flinch or waver from her stoic pose.

"Lead on," he murmurs, eyes boring into hers.

Her gaze slides away from his as she turns on her heel and jogs out of the mansion. No one speaks as they pass through Hightown, but Fenris can feel the mage's eyes jittering into the side of his head. He keeps his gaze forward, focusing on a place beyond Hawke in an effort not to stare at her hips and think about how it felt to crush those tender bones against his or how her skin felt under his palms.

"Do you always have a snarl like that on your face, or is it just because you hate mages so much?" the abomination asks in an irritating, chipper voice.

Fenris glares but does not answer, refusing to rise to the bait. One of these days he's going to rip that mage's heart out and make him eat it. He seethes in silence, grinding his teeth together and staring past Hawke with ferocious determination.

Of course the mage takes his silence as license to continue prattling. "You know, you might try and act a bit more pleasant. Maker knows that Hawke spends enough of her time worrying about you and taking care of you," he announces, earning a backwards look of warning from Aveline. Instead of feeling grateful that the Guard Captain is on his side, however, Fenris feels irritated that Aveline feels it's her place to step in to this. Bad enough the abomination has inserted himself. "Most men would kill to be doted on by Hawke, but all you do is sit in that mansion brooding and drinking and when you come out, all you do is glare." As if to prove his point, the mage fixes an intent stare on Hawke's rear, even licking his lips as her hips sway ahead of them.

It's too much. Fenris grabs the abomination by the throat and slams him against a wall, squeezing until the mage's face turns red and he sputters for air. The lyrium lights under his skin and he reaches back, fist flaring into that clawed hand that precedes a full-phase disembowelment. "Do not look at her, _mage_," he growls.

A body slams into his, whirling him away from the abomination and shoving him against the wall with sudden ferocity. Hawke's vicious eyes stare at his across a space of inches, her lips drawn away from her teeth in a furious snarl. Her knee presses between his legs, both her palms dug into his shoulders between the chest plate and the spiked shoulders. He reaches up to grasp her wrists and can feel the pound of her pulse against his palms. It's strangely gratifying that her blood races at the same rate his does, whether from fury or proximity he can't say.

"I'm sick of your bullshit, Fenris," she hisses, her face close enough and her words quiet enough that he knows only he can hear her speak.

"Good," he snaps, his hands tightening around her wrists, "Because I have grown weary of your games, woman."

Her lips twist into a bitter smirk and she leans closer until their noses brush together. "My games?" she murmurs, her mouth close enough that he can feel the words against his own lips. "You have a lot of nerve saying that."

He glares at her. Clearly she did not understand how much it meant for him to do what he did after her duel with the Arishok. She underestimates his desire for her and it makes him furious, makes him hate her anew because how can she be so Maker-damned cruel to him? After the care and concern he's shown, opening up to her and proving his adoration and loyalty time and again. How does she not understand how desperately he wants to be with her, how much he hates himself because he cannot? Just as his hands leave her wrists to grip her face and hair, a cough sounds. Both he and Hawke snap their heads in that direction to see Aveline shaking her head.

"There are laws about doing this sort of thing in public," the guardswoman comments, folding her arms. Almost as an afterthought she raises an eyebrow at them in what is almost an exasperated manner to add, "Whatever it is you're _doing_." The abomination scowls at the two of them from behind her, still red and trying not to cough from his semi-strangulation.

Fenris releases her face just as she steps back, away from him. With furious, flashing eyes, she turns back to the guardswoman. "My apologies, Aveline," she says stiffly, and he can glimpse the vicious twist of her lips in profile as she gestures one sharp hand to her side as if to sweep him away. "Fenris, go home. I'll see you when we get back."

His heart pounds with fury and his face heats to the tips of his ears. She's mocking him, humiliating him like a Magister would. After helping him to keep his precious freedom, after enslaving his body and even his thoughts, after introducing him to various companions and calling him a friend, she's casting him aside in front of those other friends, throwing him away like he's one of those useless items she sometimes snatches while recklessly looting the bodies of her slain foes. To make it worse, the Maker-damned abomination was smirking at him over Aveline's shoulder, smug in his cowardice. Fenris burns with fury to the point that he feels that lyrium buzz of his tattoos flaring to life as the fury turns cold. His tattoos flash once and burn out before he snatches her wrist in the clawed tips of his gauntlet.

"No."

That single word brings everyone to a halt. They stare at him, Hawke turning around slowly to face him last of all. Her eyes flash with that vicious glitter and she says, in a very quiet voice, "What did you say?"

"I said, 'no,'" he answers, still grasping her wrist. "I am going with you wherever you go."

Her eyes narrow as he lifts her arm up with his so that the red scrap of silk on his wrist stares her in the face. A storm of emotions rages through her gaze as she looks at his favor from their night together and he cannot hope to identify all of them, but a few he's seen before- fury, confusion, determination, sorrow and underneath it all, desire. Hawke shifts her eyes to meet his. He stares into her frowning face and recognizes that despite the drawn brows and downturned lips, her eyes still have that tempestuous quality. "Why?" she demands.

Although he knows she wants him to convince her of his use in a fight, he smirks at her and says, "I enjoy following you."

For several seconds her mouth opens and closes without sound, the faintest hint of color rising to her cheeks and across her nose, and she whirls away, snatching her hand from his grasp and marching to the head of the group. "Hurry up. The Wounded Coast is a long walk," she snaps.

Aveline's shoulders shake with silent mirth as she falls in step beside Hawke and the women take to murmuring. The abomination shoots him a hard scowl and turns away to march along behind them and Fenris takes the rear, watching Hawke's hips the whole way through the city gates and down the path to the jagged cliffs of the coastline. He ignores the mage in favor of the womanly conversation up front, which he can hear without effort. In fact, it would be harder not to hear it, so he listens with a pounding heart and his eyes fixated, unashamed, on Hawke.

"What's going on, Hawke?" Aveline, ever blunt, mutters at a low enough volume that other humans couldn't overhear them.

He watches with a stab of rage as Hawke presses her hand out to steer Aveline around a corner that cuts through the Foundry District. Her head tilts toward the guard captain, hair falling to hide her face, and she answers in just as low a voice, "I have no idea. He's... confusing, shall we say?"

But Aveline is not so easily put off. She keeps pace with Hawke's brisk run, their arms linking once they are out of the city's walls and she says, "Maker knows you deserve a bit of happiness, Hawke."

Fenris blinks, shocked at the guardswoman's words. Until now he's never considered his desire for Hawke as a chance at happiness. He's considered it an obstacle he must conquer, an infuriating problem to be dealt with. The idea hits him like a bucket of cold water, as if Hadriana has decided to return from the grave and awaken him for menial tasks like repairing her robes or inspecting the security of the grounds to keep him awake and weak. Just as then, he feels shocked and weakened and helpless in the face of things he cannot fight against. But he killed Hadriana, and when Hawke was cut by the Arishok's blade he felt a stab of horror and physical agony, as if his chest and stomach were being torn apart by wild beasts, fear a thousand times worse than the scrabbling duty he had as a slave when his master's life was threatened. He frowns at Hawke's hips, which aren't swaying as much now that she walks so close to Aveline.

Hawke takes a sharp breath through her nose before she speaks. "I don't know if happiness is even possible for him," she mutters. There's a note in her voice he's never heard before, a rough sound that makes his chest twist. He tries to feel fury at her words, but instead his head just swims with confusion and the sort of nightmare terror he felt when he first ran from Denarius, as if the world just passes by him as he waits to be captured or killed.

With her head tilted at that angle, Aveline could probably see him, and he realizes that she does when she murmurs, "He's not scowling when he stares at your ass."

"Nor when he sleeps in my bed and disappears in the morning," Hawke grumbles, though she does sneak a glance at him and he has to tear his gaze away from her backside, scowling at the ground. They are mocking him, he thinks, feeling his cheeks color. Hawke adds, "I think he can hear us." Of course she would notice his flush. He grinds his teeth.

"Well, you saw how it went for me and Donnic," Aveline murmurs, resting her temple against Hawke's in a moment of sisterly affection. "That's all I'm saying."

Fenris expects Hawke to shove her away at any moment, but to his surprise, she tilts her head as well. It's a sort of half-embrace that he envies and in that moment he hates both of them for sharing such a tender contact so easily, especially considering that Hawke is not the sort to show affection to anyone.

Before he can get carried away with his jealousy, however, Hawke pulls the guard to a halt and the others stop short behind her. "Look down that hill," she says, pointing. Fenris clusters up to her other shoulder before the abomination can weasel his way in and tips his head close to her shoulder as he gazes down the line of her arm. Not that he needs to; the scene is obvious. A group of guardsmen cluster behind a low stone wall, dodging the well-placed arrows of a group of Raiders. Without a word, everyone jogs down the hill, taking cover and edging over to the guards.

Aveline and the lieutenant speak briefly and Fenris does not listen. One way or another, there's going to be a fight. He watches that vicious glitter in Hawke's eyes as she nods to the guardswomen and then leans into a huddle to discuss a plan. A moment later she grips his arm and draws him into the group with the mage.

"They're bound to have traps laid out all through the front. Send your men around the sides while I clean up these traps and wait for my signal to come in. All the casualties will be theirs from here on," Hawke promises. Her voice has that hard, fierce tone in her voice and the vicious glint in her eyes and he can smell the tang of sweat and leather and that floral perfume underneath when he leans closer to her. He wants to reach over, to grasp her chin and kiss her mouth in front of all of these people, and then he realizes how that would be like any beholden slave desperate to please a Magister, to show such public adoration.

He scowls at her. "And you intend to move ahead of us, no doubt?" he growls. He dislikes the idea of her being without protection, however temporarily. She knows how to use those shadow-bending techniques that other assassins and rogues rely so heavily on, but he has seen her use them only on rare occasions. It stands to reason she could be out of practice.

Hawke glares at him. "You won't have to wait long," she answers. A grim smirk jerks the corner of her mouth up. "You can keep staring at my arse in the meantime."

A chuckle ripples through the guardsmen and even Aveline averts her eyes and pretends to cough. Fenris glares at her as she takes a breath and hops over the wall into a copse of scrawny trees, disappearing from view as soon as she hits the shadow. His fists clench in impotent fury and he turns his fearsome look to Aveline, who crosses her arms and shakes her head as if to tell him his scowl won't change her opinion, either. But at the first shout, he sprints out of hiding and rushes to her side while every Raider in the camp turns toward them in shock.

There's a second of silence that he uses to lunge toward the nearest group, slamming his sword against all of their armor to send them staggering back. Hawke flips behind the largest of the bunch and her daggers slide into his neck. The battle begins with a series of screams and the clang of weapons and armor. Guardsmen come pouring around the low hills, but the Raiders have sent archers and a few mages up there to rain down hellfire on the flanking attack. The crowd is deep and he hears Aveline shouting at the men, her voice rising to a taunting bellow. He dashes toward her, dancing around blades and whipping his own broadsword through the men as he passes by. He pulls up back-to-back with the guardswoman, feeling a magical barrier engulf the two of them, and sees one of the mages on the hill drop to the ground in front of Hawke. A vicious grin carves across her face as her hand and foot snap out to stab the archer and break his knee in case he's quick enough to dodge her strike. He isn't.

At one point a sword rips into his chest on the wrong side and Fenris manages to activate his lyrium powers in time to prevent his lung from being punctured. A burn of magic flares over him and he sees the green glow of his skin and bone being knitted together as he decapitates his opponent and the sword falls free. He glances over his shoulder to see the abomination's pale, sweating face contorted in concentration as a man rushes toward him with a shield. Fenris snarls and lunges to defend the mage who is healing him, and Hawke.

If not for Anders' healing magic and their combined determination to keep the abomination alive when men turn on him, Fenris wonders if they would survive the battle at all. By the end they are all panting and shaking, covered in blood from head to toe, with bruises and scratches that the mage didn't bother healing because he's half fainting from exertion, the lyrium potions at his belt making hollow clinks.

"We need to get you back to Kirkwall," Aveline says as the blonde man sags against her, exhausted. She slides her arm around the mage's shoulders and one of the surviving guardsmen takes his other side. "Come meet me when you're done checking through the camp. I need to hear from you to make my report complete," she says over her shoulder at Hawke, who's already begun to gather the corpses' possessions into her pack.

The moment their companions are out of sight they turn toward one another and fall on each other with sudden violence and overwhelming need. She presses him against the cliff face with her torso against his as he crushes their bloodstained mouths together. He drags his hands up through her hair, holding her close, and realizes as her fingers make the buckles of his armor clatter that she's trembling. His kiss grows heated, brutal and tender at the same time, his tongue tracing hers and his teeth catching her lips. They fight to be free of just enough clothing and he spins them around, jamming her back to the rocks as he frees his length and shifts the leather skirt of her armor up over her hips. It happens fast and fierce, both of them clinging to each other with desperate hands scrambling across shoulders and hair and faces and backs, their mouths never parting as they swallow each other's moans and gasps.

The lyrium alights as her lips and tongue muffle his shout of her first name, and Fenris expects the flashes to come. He sees that tiny red-haired girl with yellow ribbons and the terrifying dog outside the gate, he sees the soft grey eyes of a mother and the whip of a master that he learns to hate, to try to protect them from. He collapses against Hawke, giving her a long, languid kiss with the cold steel of his palm cupping her cheek. But the images don't flee as he kisses her and he realizes they've become familiar to a degree. His heart pounds as he pulls back just enough to stare at her face, the softness of her eyes and skin against his palm.

As he drinks in the sight of her, those brilliant, vicious eyes narrow at him and she slides herself off his length, shoving him away. Her lips purse as she straightens her smallclothes and the various knives strapped to her thighs, now bruised with his fingerprints again.

"Not this time," she mutters as she passes him, pausing only when the glitter of an object catches her eye the entire way back to Kirkwall.

She never says a word to him and he does not attempt to speak to her. What can he say? As much as he wants to tell her how he wants her, as much as what Aveline said about being happy might have the uncomfortable ring of truth to it, he can't stop thinking about those memories. There's nothing but fragments and perhaps they are things he has seen so often that he cannot help but to remember them at this point. But perhaps this is the key to learning of his past, to recovering the single greatest thing that Denarius stole from him.

Fenris pauses in Lowtown and catches her hand for a moment. Hawke turns to stare at him, her eyes flashing that same war of emotions and her fingers tighten around his for a moment before they slip away. He turns toward the Hanged Man to ask Varric how good his spy network in Tevinter is. He has a sister to investigate.


	6. Breakthroughs

Wow, reviewers. You are excellent! Thanks so much for the praise and suggestions. I am getting close to the ending (2 more chapters!) and appreciate your support and inspiration.

All song lyrics and inspiration for this chapter come f**rom "Rocky Took a Lover" by Bell X1. **It's a trippy, appropriate song for this fic.

**Warnings:** Smut, extreme drunkenness, language, angst in spades

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><p><em>She said "I don't believe in any old Jesus<em>

_if there was a God, then why is my ass_

_The perfect height for kicking?"_

_He said "I'll shine for you, I'll burn for you._

_Yeah, I'll shine for you, that's what I'll do."_

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><p>Fenris avoids Hawke at first, but finds himself dreaming of those memory flashes, seeing more and more with every dream. Fragments of his memory return at odd times- he goes to the market and sees a little girl in a green skirt and thinks of how his sister always wore that color, or he smells bread cooking while passing the bakery and recalls his mother passing him pieces of bread when his stomach ached from hunger in the night. An entire summer of fitful sleep shakes him as he resists seeking her out, a terrible summer of drought that makes tempers short and a combination of hunger and disease rage through the city.<p>

The drought breaks with a terrible thunderstorm that slams in from the sea, heavy gusts of wind and sheets of water pounding the city. Fenris tries to sleep but awakens with a start when lightning flares through the sky and thunder crashes a second later. Heart pounding, he leaps from the bed before he realizes what's going on, expecting to hear the baying of dogs outside the door. His mother was terrified of the dogs, a fear she could justify with scars on her arms and legs.

Lightning flashes in jagged forks across the sky and he's reminded of the shape of those pale marks on her skin. He rubs his eyes and shoves his hand back through his hair, his curses drowned out by the crashing thunder.

He needs to leave this place. Crossing to the door with quick strides, he remembers the growling dogs and shudders, withdrawing his hand before he can touch the handle. Unable to open his door, Fenris hops out of his window in the loose shirt and leggings he wears to sleep, hauling himself onto the slick rooftop. The rain and wind make the tiles treacherous, but he scrambles around and slides down his roof, using the momentum to leap across the gap between their rooftops. Her roof is flatter than his, and he moves with careful steps until he can slip down and lower himself to her windowsill. Water pours down the roof in a steady shower, threatening his grasp on the eaves as he taps on the glass of her bedroom window.

She reclines on her bed, barefoot and in a new red robe, a book in her lap. At the sound of him knocking on her window she pulls a dagger so fast he doesn't see where it comes from. Though that might be the rain. He raps again with his knuckles, hunching to fit into the space and furious that he's soaked and she's staring at him, toying with her blade and twirling it in deft fingers as she takes her time walking to the window.

"Fenris," she says, opening the window and stepping back. The dagger disappears in a flash of silver and she crosses her arms as he climbs in. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asks him when he steps through the window, but there's no venom in her tone. He's furious that she can make it sound like a greeting.

Before speaking he shakes himself off, droplets flying from his sodden hair and skin and clothes to soak her, making her yelp and dart back toward the bed. "What have you done to me, woman?" he demands, advancing toward her. He pushes strands of hair away from his face and sends up a spray of water before the hair slides back in heavy, wet chunks to its original position. He snarls at her confused expression. "My memories are returning. I see my past in everything now."

"Isn't that a good thing?" she snaps, holding her ground with folded arms and a forlorn spark of viciousness that he can't place. He thinks of the knife and wonders how fast he can disarm her if he needs to.

As much as he wants to slump into her arms and beg for comfort, he can't. Some part of him knows she would give it without question, that the softness of her hands and lips and skin will turn tender the moment he asks, and he hates her for it. Why does she do this to him, why does she accept him hurting her and why does she hurt him in doing so? Is it not enough that he is so completely hers? It's cruel of her to be his, as well, cruel to both of them, and he hates her for it because he cannot fathom why she would do such a thing.

"You do not understand," he growls, peeling the drenched fabric of his shirt away from his skin so that she can see the water droplets clinging to his tattoos. She makes a strangled sound and steps to meet him as if drawn by a spell. "You will never understand," he sighs, staring at her bright, vicious eyes. His hands run through her hair, pushing pieces back from her face as he leans down to kiss her.

Her teeth graze his lips, her nails grasping at his arms as he pulls her closer still. His hands soak through the fabric of the robe and she shivers as he pulls it aside, his mouth seeking purchase on her neck and shoulder as she shoves his drenched pants over his hips. Fenris kicks them away and growls, lifting her against him so her warm body presses to his skin, still damp with cold water. He wants to move slowly, to spend the entire night undressing her and kissing her, memorizing her flesh so that he can survive his time without her. Because now he knows he will be back, that returning to her is inevitable.

They don't make it to the bed. Her legs wrap around his hips and he grips the bedpost, unable to lower her down as she sheathes his length in slick heat, her tongue tracing the water beading the brands on his neck and shoulders. He digs his other hand into her hip, guiding her over him as he thrusts to meet her with his lips pressed to her cheek, helpless moans issuing from him as she trails her hot mouth along his collarbone. Lightning flashes outside at the same time that his tattoos flash, as if nature itself bows to the force of their simultaneous climax.

This time the flashes are different, clearer: he sees his sister falling and scraping her knee and then his mother tending the cut after he carries the little girl inside, he sees pretty girls smiling as he practices with his sword, he feels the crack of a master's whip when he fumbles in his training and becomes better and better, the best of all the others so that he can escape that crack, so he can free his mother and sister from it, too.

His knees are too weak to support him and he pitches sideways onto the bed with her still wrapped around him.

Fenris stares into her eyes for a long moment, lifting his hand to brush the dampened hair aside. He studies the way it falls against her pale skin, framing her bright eyes and the delicacy of her features. Her beauty as she lies tangled with him across the red sheets, her cheeks flushed and her gaze momentarily softened, catches his breath in his throat. He leans forward and gives her a gentle kiss, stroking his thumb along her cheek. "Sleep," he murmurs against her lips. She blinks at him and rolls over to face away from him. Not yet ready to lose her, he moves to pull her back against his chest, wrapping her in his arms and holding her until they both fall asleep.

At the first light of dawn he wakes and slips from her bed, gathering his now-dry clothing and pulling it on before he steals out the window and returns to his stolen mansion the same way he came to her Estate.

Before he leaves, he brushes her hair away from her sleeping face and kisses her forehead.

Though he means to avoid her for the next several weeks, the storms pummel Kirkwall for almost a week. He returns night after night, sleeping until dawn and awakening before she can stir, slipping through the window only to return when dark falls. To be so weakened by his own remembered fears and fear of remembering, to be so weak to her pull, makes him ashamed and furious. As the nights go by he becomes sullen, and though he sleeps better than he's slept in many years with Hawke in his arms, he awakens resenting her for the feelings she evokes in him, for the confusion and desire and for that silent understanding she gives him, leaving her window open every time a thunderstorm strikes throughout the autumn.

As the winter sets in and storms freeze to snow from the mountains, he finds himself without excuses to visit her in the middle of the night. He spends hours alone in his mansion practicing with his sword, except when Aveline drags him to practice with her guards or Donnic comes to play Wicked Grace with him. Once a week he joins the others at the Hanged Man, walking to and from Hightown with Hawke and trying to think of something to say as they track through the snow.

Fenris doesn't dare think about his sister, afraid to hope for such good fortune. He's almost forgotten about finding her when Varric arrives at his mansion with a scrap of paper and passes it to him across the desk. Fenris stares at the dwarf and then at the page, lips moving to shape the words: _Found the girl. A tailor in Minrathous. No family. Should I make contact?_

"So, Elf?" Varric asks, spreading his wide hands. "I told him to make contact, but not to say who sent him."

In response, Fenris moves through the room, gathering together several coinpurses and dropping their contents into a larger pouch before he returns and sets it down in front of the dwarf's glittering eyes. "I have coin enough to buy her passage here," he announces, shoving the heavy pouch across the desk.

* * *

><p><em>He said, "I wanna shine in the eye of Orion<em>

_but I drove my soul through the black hole."_

_She said, "What a wonderful way to wake me_

_You weren't so nice last night_

_You're such an asshole when you're drunk."_

* * *

><p>Hawke finds herself irritated throughout the winter, pacing around, drinking wine and glowering at the window. She wants to see him there, climbing in with rain-damp hair and skin, tattoos illuminated by lightning, green eyes angry and frightened as he advances toward her with vicious steps. As days pass into months with no more than the occasional lingering stare as they sit in a group of friends, she wonders which bothers her more: his absence, or that she wants him to return. It makes no sense that she should want him to be there when she knows he leaves every morning at dawn as she lies there careful not to stir, breathing with the rhythm of sleep.<p>

This chaotic whirl of thoughts fills her brain as the winter goes on, leaving her in a dark mood that darkens every time she sees the elf. Her companions notice and they all try to help in their own ways, except, of course, for Fenris. Merrill and Aveline even attempt to have a "Ladies' Night" at the Amell Estate, arriving with bottles of wine and sweets, but it's not the same with Isabela off who-knows-where avoiding Kirkwall and Hawke. It smarts not to have her friend's bawdy humor and inappropriate reassurances ("I'll go kick his ass for you and take you to bed after if you want, sweet thing") and the pirate's lingering absence makes Hawke realize how much she's relied on that constancy. Some days it feels as if everyone is leaving her, one at a time, and there's nothing she can do about it. Father, Carver, Bethany, Mother, Isabela, and Fenris, who leaves her over and over again.

When the spring thaw allows for her to return to her mercenary work, Hawke throws herself back into things, helping every idiot with every possible task from Hightown to Lowtown. One by one, she visits her companions, but she waits to go to Fenris' mansion. She doesn't know what to say or what she'll even do once she's there. Far better to wait for him to come to her than to seek him out, to pursue him when he's made it clear time and again that he only wants one thing from her.

One day, out of the blue, she walks into the Hanged Man in search of Varric and finds Isabela at her usual spot at the bar, drinking and smirking as if she'd never left. Hawke walks up to the pirate with a scowl and after a momentary stare-down, she reaches out to give the other woman a brisk pat on the arm. Isabela grins and lunges forward, wrapping Hawke up in her arms and squeezing her until she can barely breathe. Of course the dwarf walks downstairs in time to witness this atrocity and Hawke sighs and lets them drag her to sit down for a tankard.

"So, you and Fenris?" Isabela prompts right off the bat. There's a shuffle under the table and the Rivaini woman winces and glares at Varric.

Hawke tips back in her chair, into that comfortable pose of false carelessness that she prefers. "It's nothing," she mutters. "I haven't even talked to him all winter." She scowls at the ale in her hands, as if doing so will somehow improve its quality, or at least put some hops in there. It doesn't help and finally she's forced to take a sip.

Varric snorts into his own mug. "That explains why you've been so pissed-off," he comments. He takes a loud slurp to prove his dwarven masculinity or to keep his chest hair lush (he always has some excuse for that vile slurping habit) and sets the mug down with a clatter, fixing Hawke with his astute stare. "You know, the two of you were almost acting like normal people during autumn. Never saw anyone look so smug wading through mud after a thunderstorm."

She chokes on her ale and coughs for a long minute without lowering the legs of the chair to the floor. Isabela looks between Hawke and Varric and a smirk crosses her lips just as one eyebrow arches. "I _have_ missed a lot, haven't I?" the pirate muses. She knocks back her whiskey with a swift toss of her head and sighs contentedly. "I was sure that after your duel he was going to rush up and ravage you right there in the Keep."

This time Varric outright chuckles. "They made it back to her house. You can't hear what's happening in the Keep through all of Hightown."

"So then why haven't you spoken to him in so long?" Isabela asks, exchanging glances with Varric. Her amber eyes have a serious flicker to them that makes Hawke uncomfortable as she cups her brown palms around her empty snifter.

Hawke gives her an uncomfortable shrugs and glances at Varric. She hasn't even told Aveline about the way things have gone between her and Fenris. Her friends are well-aware that the two of them have something between them that frequently erupts into violence or sex, but she can't bring herself to confide the truth: that he comes back to her again and again to use her and that she lets him, that she welcomes his returns and prays he won't leave even though she knows he will, time and time again. It is too embarrassing, and worse, it will only encourage her enemies to know how weak she is.

The pirate slaps the surface of the table suddenly, her brows contracting and her expression turning dark. "He left you again," she growls. "I can't bloody believe him!" She sounds personally offended on Hawke's behalf, which serves to further humiliate her far more than to make her feel better. Isabela glares at Hawke, pointing her finger and jabbing the air as if to punctuate every word. "You have to move on."

"Maybe the sex is too good," Hawke mumbles into her ale, tipping further back. She certainly tells herself that when she wakes up to the sound of him sneaking out her window.

"If you were in it for the sex, you'd have slept with me years ago," Isabela answers frankly. She orders another round and Hawke spends the rest of her day with them there, drinking and complaining about Fenris.

As night falls, the subject of their conversation walks through the door. His green eyes fix on Hawke and he walks to their table with brisk strides, scowling down at her and ignoring the other two. He folds his arms and stands next to her chair with his vicious stare and she makes a point of finishing her drink before she swivels her head to stare up at him.

"What the hell are you doing, Hawke?" he demands in a harsh tone.

"Whaddoes it _look_ like 'm doing?" she slurs, slamming her mug against the tabletop. She tries to tip back in her chair and his hand shoots out to snap it back into place, his glare growing more fierce. The ale makes her strangely aware of how hard she's trying to imitate his scowl and she bursts out laughing. Isabela and Varric join in, leaning against each other. Their epic tolerance has not helped them much; Hawke has spent the winter drinking like the mercenary she is and the day has been a long one. She leans forward, still laughing, her shoulders shaking with silent seizures of bitter mirth, and grasps his wrist, pulling him down nose-to-nose with her. "'m gonna bloody celebrate tha' my, my, my friend is back home," she announces in a loud conspiratorial whisper, looking pointedly at the pirate with her unsteady temple resting against his forehead. Isabela grins and waves and sets off another wave of giggles for the three drunk rogues.

Fenris widens his eyes and inhales a sharp breath when she pulls him close, staring at her lips as she talks. When she looks at him again after staring at the pirate, she sees his mouth turning down near hers and his green eyes narrowing once more. "Hawke," he says in a quiet voice that trembles in his effort to remain calm, "It's time to go."

"I don't wanna go," she snaps, swaying in her chair, "'n' you can't make me do anything." She utters a bitter, brewery-scented laugh in his face and gives him a sloppy, drunken shove that only prompts him to rock back to his heels, crouching at eye level. Spurred by the fury of her drunkenness, she turns to face Isabela and Varric, who no longer laugh, watching her with wide eyes. With a vicious, bloodthirsty grin, she waves down the harried waitress and points across her table. "More drinks! Bela's back to re-re- well, shit, now she's the best tits in Kirkwall again 'n' all the rest of us've gotta jus' give up on winning the, the, award."

Isabela smirks and Hawke sees her eyes flick to Fenris for a moment. "Well, you always hide yours under tunics and armor, sweet thing," she purrs. "Let them air out a bit and they'll grow. Like plants."

"Challenge accepted," Hawke cries, reaching to snatch her mug from the waitress. She downs it in one long draught and some ale dribbles down her chin to her neck. At her words, the patrons start looking around and she hiccups when she slams her mug down. In some dim corner of her mind, she knows that the pirate means for her to do this as much as she knows she shouldn't. But she's drunk and mad at Fenris and she wants to get him back for everything. For all those bloody mornings pretending to be asleep while he snuck out. Hawke stands, wobbling a bit, and scrabbles at the buckles and straps of her armor, which she wore because she was _supposed_ to spend the day tracking down an assassin among the Dalish. Whistles and applause and shouts meet her, laughter from Varric and Isabela and encouragement from the other drunks as she manages to fumble the first strap on her shoulder free. Cold metal hands close over her arms and pull them to her sides with sudden force. In her current state, she moves and thinks too slow to fend off the attacker, who pulls her around to face him with her rump resting against the table.

Green eyes glare at her through silver-white hair and Fenris' lip curls into a sneer. "No," he says, that single syllable bringing an abrupt halt to the bawdy laughter and catcalls and scattered applause throughout the tavern.

"Uh, Hawke," Varric says, patting Isabela's back as she whispers something into his ear that he listens to with flicking eyes and a short nod. "I think you should just go with him."

"But-" she protests. It's too late. Fenris is tugging her through the whispers and stares and into the sudden cold of the night and her friends are shouting their goodbyes as she stumbles along, twisting to watch them as the door slams behind her. Icy rain pelts her when she steps outside and lightning flashes across the sky. Her heart pounds. She hasn't noticed the storm until now, nor the late hour. Her feet halt in spite of the vicious grip he has on her wrist and he whirls to face her with fury in his stare.

"Why did you go there, Hawke?" he demands, driving her back against the wall so the rain pours over them both, freezing her skin and slicking her hair to her face. "What were you thinking?"

For a long moment she can only stare at a drop of water on the lyrium lines over his chin, thinking about licking it off more than she thinks about the question. He gives her a shake and snaps her back to awareness, her eyes focusing on him with an effort. "I was thinking 'bout you sneaking out in the morning, 'n' how you just sneak around all the time like, like, I dunno, you're ashamed t'be seen with me 'n' I dunno." Her eyes burn and she grits her teeth. "So why can't you just leave me t' my drinking 'n' stop stringing me along?"

His hand moves from her shoulder to push the rain-soaked hair from her forehead, the cool metal of his thumb trailing down over her cheek. She can see, through the water sluicing over his bangs, that his eyes have softened from fury to confusion and pain. "Is that... true?" he whispers, voice barely audible over the rain.

Hawke stares back at him, her chest tight and her throat thick. She can't speak, so she nods, unable to conceal her miserable expression. In an effort to change the subject she sways against his chest and attempts a sloppy, drunken kiss. He dodges it too easily, moving to loop an arm around her waist and help her back to Hightown. His rejection burns her cheeks throughout the walk, but she can't escape his iron grip as he steers her into her estate and up the stairs without any care for the puddles they drip onto the carpets.

Fenris doesn't say another word to her for the rest of the night, leading her to sit in front of the fire after he strips her armor off and puts her weapons away. He walks away and she hears him mutter something in Arcanum, and an interminable amount of time later he returns with towels. She offers little resistance except her body's refusal to cooperate with her own wishes, but that doesn't gentle his touch as he dries her off with a scowl. At last he lifts her into the bed and wraps her in the blankets before he strips his own clothes off, toweling down as she stares with drunk eyes at the tattoos trailing over his bare skin. Her eyelids grow heavy and the last thing she perceives before sleep claims her is his weight settling beside her, his arm hooking around her shoulders to roll her over against his chest.

She wakes up alone in her bed to a pounding headache and a vague memory of Fenris being there. Wincing, she sits up, clutching her forehead and trying not to sway with the waves of dizziness and nausea. A glass of water sits beside her on the nightstand and she downs it in a gulp. Her door opens just as she flops back among the pillows, clenching her eyes shut against the glare of sunlight. "Can you shut the curtains, please, Orana?" she asks without opening her eyes.

"Take this," answers a deep voice that makes her jerk upright, her eyes snapping open. Fenris stares down at her with an exasperated expression and a steaming mug that smells like rich, exotic coffee. He's wearing all his armor and turns away to pull the drapes the moment she accepts the coffee.

"Thank you," she murmurs after taking a sip that scalds her tongue. Her eyebrows rise when he turns around to face her. Rather than ask the obvious question, she takes another sip of coffee.

He crosses his arms and snorts. "You really think so little of me?" he asks, his stare growing dark. "You believe that I am merely _using_ you for your body?"

Her heart stops. What did she say to him? Small flashes return, of him dragging her from the Hanged Man and of people clapping for her. But she can't admit to him that he's hurt her. It will only serve to fuel his rage, to humiliate her further, and he will most likely flee from even that fleeting contact. The thought of him never coming back makes her stomach turn. "Seeing as how this is the first time you haven't snuck out at dawn, what else am I supposed to think?" she retorts.

His eyes narrow. "Have you never thought that I left to protect you? That I leave for your sake?" he snarls, his hands moving to claw at the air and he stalks toward her. "Has it never occurred to you that I despise myself every time I return to hurt you again?"

"Shut up," she snaps, her hands trembling around the heat of the coffee mug. The agony of arguing is doubled by the hangover and her control over her maelstrom of emotions is tenuous at best. Of course he would choose this morning to remain and confront her about things between them. She gestures toward the door with shaking fingers. "If you don't want to be here, then go."

"Do you not hear what I am saying?" he shouts, and the volume of his voice makes her flinch, but he presses on, now pacing alongside her bed. He whirls to face her as he reaches the foot of the bed. "I want to be here more than anything in the world. I hate every moment I waste thinking of you instead of coming over here, and I hate awakening without you. I hate leaving. Every time I am here with you, leaving tears me apart all over again."

"Then why do you do it? Why leave if you hate it so much?" she yells, sitting up. She realizes that she's naked when the sheet slips down and she snatches it up, sloshing coffee over her thigh and hissing at the pain. Tears prick her eyes and she sets her mug aside, wrapping the sheet around herself in a final effort at dignity.

Fenris looks away. "I... cannot stay," he whispers.

Rage fills her, fueled by the agony of her hangover and his announcement. "Why come back if you're only going to leave? And why leave if you're just going to come back?" she demands, gesturing with one furious hand as the other clutches her sheet over her skin. Against her will, a frustrated sob escapes her throat. "I can't do this anymore. I'm tired of your games and your indecision."

"My games?" he asks, a low note of fury entering his voice. He steps up and grasps her wrist in his hand, his gauntlet cold against her bare skin. "This is not a game, Hawke."

She shakes her head with growing vehemence, in spite of the waves of vertigo it causes, as if to ward away his announcement. But she knows how true his words are, as much as she wants to follow Isabela's advice. Hawke closes her eyes against the sight of his face and the plea embedded deep within his glare. "Just go, Fenris," she whispers. "If you want to leave, then go."

His hand tightens around her wrist. And then he crouches down in front of her and clasps both of her hands in his again, like that night he held them in a prayer pose as they slept. Her stomach warms at the memories. Green eyes bore into hers, sorrowful and hungry and lost. "I am yours. And you are mine." His lips scrape over her knuckles and he breaths against her hand for a moment before he speaks again. "It will take as long as it takes."

This time, before he leaves he kisses her goodbye. She bites his lip before she kisses him back and then watches as he shuts the door behind him. Her mouth tingles with the memory of his and she can't stop herself from reaching up to touch her lips with her fingers as she recalls their kiss throughout the day.


	7. Belief

Lots of thanks and love to my reviewers, and to those silent people clicking 'favorite.' I love you all and bequeath you cookies and beer (maybe not together, though).

So after this chapter, I just have the end of the game and possibly a brief epilogue. I'm so sad this story can't go on forever, so I started a new one, "Fearlessness" for a different Hawke and a different romance. Apparently I have some major obsession issues with this couple...

**Warnings: **smut, a bit of language, death and blood and violence

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><p>Hawke spends two weeks avoiding Fenris, still angry that he decided to yell at her and claim her for his own while she was too hungover to muster a coherent argument. He made a deliberate choice to be a bastard, she decides, yelling at her while she was like that. Her other friends laugh at the story, and Aveline and Varric team up to attempt convincing her that his massive priggishness is proof of his devotion to her. Irritated, she leaves the Hanged Man shortly after he arrives, but she can't help admitting that some of their points <em>might<em> have been valid.

At Varric's prying insistence, she drags Fenris off to Sundermount to deal with the mad elves there in search of an assassin. All she can recall are Isabela words about moving on, and so she flirts conspicuously when the handsome Antivan assassin approaches them. He gives her a cocksure grin and she offers him her best grimace of acceptance, more thrilled at the prospect of killing a bunch of Crows than at the idea of trying to be with anyone other than Fenris.

"I shall be leaving," Zevran announces, his smirk fixating on her. "Unless you wish to... get to know each other better."

Before the idea can take shape in her head, Fenris sneers, "That depends... how much do you trust that luck of yours?" His glower falls on her a second later and she avoids those strange stares of his, the ones that combine adoration and viciousness and fury. If only she could hate that possessiveness, instead of feeling the brutal burn of heat and longing it causes.

"I see," the blonde assassin smirks. "In that case, I bid you farewell." Without further ado, he offers a brief bow and darts off at an impressive speed into the mountains.

After a moment, Fenris stalks over to her and grabs her arm in vicious fingers, gripping tight enough to bruise. He drags her close enough to hiss against her mouth, though it is not a kiss, not a tender touch. "You are _mine_," he snarls, and just as suddenly as he stepped toward her, he shoves her back. Hawke watches him go with a frown, her heart pounding in her chest at his display.

Both of her companions stare at his retreating back and then look back to her with raised brows and smirks. Then Varric winks at her and hauls Merrill away by the elbow, saying something about needing to hear some more of the famous elf-lore to spice up his stories.

It comes as no surprise when she returns to her home to find him waiting for her in the bedroom. She walks all of three steps in before his hand tangles in her hair, armor-clad fingers digging into her scalp. Against every better instinct, her head tips backward. Hawke wants nothing more than to grip the lean muscle cording his hips and beg forgiveness. She wants him to kiss her, and he does, with fierce teeth and tongue. Her head falls further back as his clawed fingertips hold her jawbone in place, forcing her to acknowledge his kiss with vicious lips, her tongue demanding his attention and assertion. But she knows that she will never own him, that he will return whenever fate or circumstance forces him to.

He does not wait to take her upstairs, his cold gauntlets first pressing her to the wall. He grips her smallclothes and tears them down her legs an instant later, his mouth still on hers as he shoves his length into her. It drags a moan and shiver from her, but she refuses to give in to those shudders of pleasure that encompass her. He thrusts until his forehead drops against hers and her name is a hiss against his lips.

"Fenris," she murmurs, and as if it is some sort of cue, he slingshots her against the writing desk without pulling apart. Perhaps movement, or else stress, hardens him again. This time his mouth consumes her throat and shoulders and closes over her breasts as she falls back against the wall and submits to his desires. His hand pushes her shoulder against the wall as the other fingers tear through the skirt of her armor and her pale skin alike, pulling her hips closer. For half a second, her hands open around his hair and then he dips down, bending into his knees and pushing up so that her back snaps into a perfect arch. His lips and tongue consume her breasts and throat as she gasps his name again and again. She shivers over the hardness pressing into her and closes her eyes for a second when he lifts her off the table and carries her up to her room.

Cold fingertips pull her legs closer around his hips and leather armor shucks aside along the course of the staircase. Their mouths mold together and he flings her to her bed, still hard and demanding, pressing into her as she screams for him still more. This demand hurts, but his mouth remains ruthless over hers, leaving only to tear her breasts and jugular veins raw with red streaks of teeth. His tongue circles her nipple and he forces her hips into an arch.

She rips through his hair with desperate hands and his mouth clings to her as he presses again and again into her. No matter how many times they shudders and gasp each other's names, he hardens and pushes back inside. Her back slams against the headboard and his thumb trails down as his index finger drags the moisture around to pinch her tender bud. His tongue trails across a nipple as her thigh twists him to his back. Her hips arch against his as he closes his mouth around the tip of her breast, his tongue a deliberate reminder of all he can do to her.

They consume each other, leaving bruises and blood, tangling throughout the night with vicious determination. They don't sleep. In the morning, when their throats ache from screaming and their bodies are too spent to do more than lie against each other, still intimately joined, a small tap on the door brings them back to the world once more.

"Mistress Hawke?" calls Orana's delicate voice, "Will, um, will messere Fenris be staying for breakfast?"

"No," Fenris barks in answer. He has an arm around her shoulders, keeping her pressed over the left side of his chest. His rough palm shoves pieces of her hair away from her cheek and his mouth finds hers in spite of the awkward angle. "I have business to attend to," he murmurs against her mouth. A moment later he pulls away from her, swinging his legs over the bed and searching for his clothing. She watches him with dull eyes for a moment, pulling the sheets around herself as he hops through the window. His fleeing feet patter across the rooftop.

Hawke manages to wait a month before she goes to his house, ostensibly to ask his help hunting down some apostates. Of course she intends to set them free, but that's beside the point. If worse comes to worse, he'll be very useful in whatever battle ensues. If nothing else, she'll get to take out some of her confusion and anger on him in the most aggressive passive-aggressive manner she can come up with.

She walks in on silent feet and hears voices coming up the stairs. Hawke hesitates in the doorway as she sees Fenris arguing with Aveline about a trap. "Can't you be sure?" he demands, slamming a hand against the desk.

"I've had my men check her out. It doesn't look like anything," Aveline answers in a curt tone. "If you'll excuse me, it looks like someone else is here to endure your charms." She shoots Hawke a glance and shoulders out in her plate metal, shaking her head and pressing a hand to her temple as if she feels a headache coming on.

"What was that about?" Hawke asks, leaning against the doorway to avoid stepping inside.

Fenris stares at her and she sees that desperation in his gaze that she's grown to love and fear. "My sister. I followed up on what Hadriana said and I found her..." he paces, restless, and halts to give her an abrupt, pleading look. "I paid for her passage here and... and she's at the Hanged Man. She'll be there all this week and... I have to know if..." he trails off, looking away before she can absorb the brief, frightened flash of hope in his eyes.

"Have you contacted Varric?" she asks immediately. The dwarf practically owns the place at this point, with the patronage his stories and her presence bring to the dingy Lowtown tavern. He knows almost every shady patron and regular, points Hawke to any contact she needs with a subtle shift of his chin, and commands the attention of any staff or drunk there with a single smirk. If anything is happening there, Varric will know every detail.

"Of course I have," he shouts, lunging around the table and halting just in front of her, his hands lifting as if to grab her and closing helplessly. He lowers his eyes. "And he is negotiating trade deals in Amaranthine."

"Then we'll get Merrill and Anders to meet us over there," she decides with a nod. She wants to fold her arms but he's too close, so she settles on flexing her fists at her sides. He scowls at her, mouth opening to protest, and she gives him an answering glare that's pure, vicious steel. "If it is a trap and Denarius is there, we'll be better off to have a few mages with us."

His jaw tightens and green eyes narrow for a second. "Fine," he growls, turning on his heel and marching over to where his greatsword leans against the fireplace.

* * *

><p>Fenris recognizes her- the red hair and large, sad eyes he remembers from the time before his markings. Her shoulders have acquired a weary hunch and she has aged too much, small lines forming around her mouth and on her forehead. When his sister lifts her head and gazes at him with a combination of horror and sorrow, his heart races.<p>

"Leto?" she says, staring at his markings. "It... it is you." Her voice trails off and she shuts her weary eyes, hanging her head again.

A hand closes around the wrist of his gauntlet, leather-clad fingers firm. "It's a trap," Hawke mutters, and he glimpses the vicious lines of her profile as sharp eyes take in the scene. She pulls him a step away from the table just as the horrible laugh that's haunted his dreams for these past years echoes from atop the stairs.

Denarius stands there and smirks at Hawke. "Thank you for retrieving my stolen property," he says in his smoothest voice. His gnarled hands, scarred with years of blood magic and aged far more than the magister, dig into the sleeves of his heavy velvet robe. "I believe a reward is in order."

His lips curl into a sneer just as hers do. His blood thrills as she narrows her eyes at the mage and a twinge of fear curls icy fingers around his heart when a brutal, bloodthirsty smile carves over her face. Perhaps she will give him back to his old master. Perhaps his hesitation and cruelty and viciousness have worn her out too much. Perhaps she's grown tired of this game, just as she said. He holds his breath as Hawke speaks, nerves grating as he hangs on every word.

"What a shame," she murmurs, speaking in a slow, deadly tone, "That I won't get to kill you myself." She punctuates her statement with a swift kick to the old man's soft stomach that makes him reel back and slam his staff to the floor.

Guards leap from the tables and close off their exit. He lunges forward with a snarl, his blade slicing toward Denarius, but the magister smirks for a moment before disappearing in a flash of magic light. The sword slams into several other men, knocking them back, and he tears in, hacking them apart with swift, brutal strikes. Their blood covers his face and hair, thick and hot as he whirls to see a magical barrier surround the mage. Shades swarm through the tavern and he glimpses Hawke somersaulting behind a knot of creatures and slashing their exposed backs, confident and vicious.

"I've got him, Fenris!" shouts the Dalish witch. He sees her hand extend toward the magister with blood running down her arms. Her fingers clench into a fist and she twists her hand toward herself in a ripping motion. The barrier around Denarius disappears and as he leaps for the mage he gets the pleasure of glimpsing true fear for a moment. Then his fist plunges through the sagging folds of the other man's neck and his hand closes around the throat and spine and he tears chunks of both out as he drops the corpse.

His sword whips in an outward arc to dispatch the last shades and he sheathes it as the last one erupts into a shower of acrid sparks. His eyes fall on Varania, cowering in the corner where she watched the massacre and did nothing to help. As he glances around, he sees that even Isabela managed to leave her suite half-dressed as ever to help raze the foes. Even the abomination and the blood mage helped, and his sister- his sister set this up.

As he approaches her, she yelps and cries, "Please, you don't understand. The things I've had to do since Mother died... He was going to make me a Magister."

His blood freezes in his veins. "You betrayed me to become one of them?" he hisses. His tattoos alight of their own accord. She deserves to die, she deserves worse than this. To seek such evil, to embrace it and thirst for more is beyond his comprehension. To be so completely power-hungry and evil as to betray her own brother to learn the secrets of blood magic and torture makes him feel sick to share blood with her. Until this moment he has never known true loathing, not from any punishment at Denarius or Hadriana's hands nor any moment of self-hatred as he left Hawke and hurt her.

"Please," Varania begs, turning her face to Hawke now. "Don't let him kill me!" She seems to think Hawke is his new master, to believe him nothing more than property. Their shared blood means nothing to her, only her own survival. It is as if a gray veil descends over the world, a taste and scent of ashes that fills his mouth and nose.

"You deserve to die," Hawke whispers, and in her eyes Fenris glimpses all of her fury and viciousness, all of her hurt over the years from his treatment and the loss of a good, loving family one terrible death at a time. He can see everything in her eyes, can imagine that the entire universe is held within their burning depths. More than any of that, brighter and fiercer than the other sharp emotions, he can see her trust in him and her love, that soft core below the brutality.

Her eyes bring colors back to the world, and as his palm closes over his sister's treacherous heart, it's her name that spills from his lips when he turns. Her real name, not the surname everyone uses. He steps up to her, wrapping a hand around her waist. She grips his fingers, still dripping with Varania's blood, and guides his hand up to her face. The jagged fingers of his gauntlet trace a slashing red line across her nose and cheek as her serious eyes stare into his. Then her fingers twist into the red sash on his wrist and she rips the stained, gritty fabric free with a brisk gesture.

"You are yours," she whispers, her gloved hands weaving through his bloody fingers. "But you are not alone." Her forehead rests against his and he can smell the blood on her face and somehow it mixes with the scent of her sweat and her hair and that infuriating Orlesian perfume to become intoxicating. She hands him the scrap of fabric as he breathes her in, pressing it into his palm and closing his fingers over it.

"Let us leave this place," he murmurs, gripping that mottled red piece of robe he's clung to for so long as he finds his voice. This time when he walks outside, he is not alone.

Fenris follows Hawke into her house, too blank to leave her side. He still grips that piece of cloth in his hand and she still has that streak of blood over her nose that makes her manservant tut. But she waves the servants away, promising to come down for dinner, and he follows her to the bedroom. Only she has color or life for him, only she seems real. The rest of the city might as well be sketched in waving charcoal lines; the whole of Thedas could crumble and he would not notice so long as she remains near.

"Hawke," he says as they enter her bedroom. His eyes follow her as she sits on the bench in front of her fireplace. "That night..."

"Which one?" she asks, tossing hair out of her eyes as she peels her gloves off her hands. But a flash in her eyes reveals she knows all too well. The first night, the one time they made love instead of bruising and hurting with vicious need. He just stares at her until she sighs and nods in a silent admission of comprehension.

"I was a coward," he continues. "I should have told you then how I felt."

She shifts her weight and crosses her arms. He sees a flash cross through her eyes and then she angles her head, staring into the fire so that he can only see light and shadow playing over the blood mark on her face. "So how do you feel?" she asks, the question harsh and painful.

He draws closer, moving around the bench and leaning forward. His fingers brush over her chin, tilting it up so that he can brush his lips against hers. "I would sooner die than live without you," he says. Their hair mixes together as his forehead rests against hers. "I can only pray you might forgive me someday."

Hawke stands then, her bare hands finding his shoulders and hauling him to stand with her. Brilliant eyes bore into his for a long moment and she says, "Don't let it happen again."

As her mouth molds against his he wants to laugh and cry at the same time. He's relieved and giddy and terrified all at once, re-learning her curves with hands that tremble, gentle and hungry at the same time. His tongue traces hers and he tastes her mouth again and again, his lips tracing her neck and shoulder as he bares the skin. She gasps and arches her back as he pulls her smallclothes away and lifts her thigh around his hips. For a moment, staring into her hazy eyes, he teases her entrance with the tip of his length, but he can't endure his own teasing. They grip each other, mouths seeking one another again as he slides inside of her. He holds her down against the mattress and moves slow, thrilling at her moans and the tension that builds with each thrust.

"_Treowuluf*_," he gasps in her ear as they seize with each other in perfect unison. He strokes her hair and twists to collapse more to the side, tugging her against his chest and holding her warm flesh against the buzz of his lyrium. The Tevinter endearment has escaped and he does not regret saying it, though he is relieved that she does not know enough Arcanum to recognize it.

"You're a free man, Fenris," she murmurs, her mouth against his shoulder. He tucks his chin over her head, enjoying the feel of her lips moving against his skin while she speaks. "What do you intend to do now that Denarius is dead?"

He runs his hand down her spine, tracing with light fingers that veer to secure her thigh across his hips. "I do not know," he answers, truthfully enough. He feels her muscles tense under his palms and he leans back on the pillow to stare at her face. "But if there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side," he adds, his words and gaze serious. He lifts his hand to caress her cheek and watches the fan of her dark lashes over her cheeks as he leans in to kiss her again.

It will never be perfect, he knows as she moves to sit astride his hips, her mouth never breaking free of his. They are vicious people, people who hurt others, people whose lives are flooded with blood. Each of them has killed their younger sister, and each of them has hurt the other again and again out of vindication and viciousness and pain. She feels a dogged determination to help the mages in spite of, or perhaps because of, her sister's death. He will never fully trust a mage, though she counts several among her friends.

But as she gasps his name and clenches around him, he realizes that perfection is for stories and that she is more perfect than any tale could ever be. As they lie tangled, with her on his chest and his fingers slipping through her hair, smoothing the tangles out, he realizes that he never wants to leave her again.

The sound of a bell ringing breaks their spell of silent reverence, cutting through the post-climactic fog. Hawke chuckles and lifts her head from his shoulder to stare at him. "Do you want to stay for dinner?" she asks him. Though she keeps her tone light he can detect a note of anxiety, a tentative tenderness that she fails to conceal.

He smirks at her. "Yes," he says, "I'll stay."

* * *

><p>*Treowuluf: from the Old English 'treowlufu,' meaning 'true love.' The Bioware people based Arcanum off of Old English, so I looked it up and made some adjustments to make it sound more... Fenris-y.<p>

Hawke's line "Don't let it happen again" is taken from in-game. It's how aggressive Hawke forgives Fenris at the end of 'Alone,' no joke. It's just a great line, so I had to work it in.


	8. Blazing

THANK YOU TO ALL MY LOYAL READERS, both seen and unseen. Special shout-outs to all of my reviewers, but most especially for TIM, yujacha, Sannenschein and toyvox.

SORRY this last chapter took so effing long. I was sad to end the story and because of that I didn't want to do it and my procrastination led to temporary writers' block (of this story, anyway). To those who haven't yet, check out _Fearlessness_, which is now in the M-rated smut section next door to this fellow.

Incidentally, it's really entertaining to write fluff for a couple that's not very fluffy. Like writing Wash and Zoe on _Firefly_, except more.

**Warnings: **smut and fluff (I know), language, violence, angst, endgame spoilers

* * *

><p>Fenris wakes up alone.<p>

He sits up with his heart racing when he stretches a languid, sleepy arm to pull Hawke against him as morning light creeps into the room and finds the bed empty. His clothes have been folded neatly on a chair beside the fireplace and his sword and armor rest against the same chair, all scrubbed clean of the blood from yesterday's battle. She is nowhere to be seen and he struggles out of the sheets to search through the bedroom as he pulls his tunic and leggings on haphazardly. He opens the door and charges out into the empty mansion, staring with growing panic at the great hall where her manservant usually stands watch over the house. But the dwarf and his simple son are gone as well, he realizes when he rushes down the stairs.

As he stands, feeling dizzy, he hears a steady thunking and a hissing noise. Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk. He follows the sound through the rooms of the estate's lower floor, down a corridor from the dining room and into the kitchen. Fenris stares around, confused. He's never been in the Hawke's kitchen and in fact only entered her dining room for the first time last night. Shelves of stored materials stretch along the length of the right wall, housing all of the dishes, pots and pans and assorted cooking utensils as well as dry goods ranging from flour and sugar and spices to oils and sauces, potatoes, wines, bread, beans, coffee, nuts and dried fruits. There is a large oven on the back wall and an ice box beside a simple wooden table on the left side. The room is divided in half by a free-standing counter that contains a stove with several burners.

The counter is strewn with cooking materials, from vegetables and fruits to a bowl of dough, with innumerable spoons and knives and miscellaneous utensils that he's unfamiliar with. The thunking rhythm ceases when he enters and he watches, entranced, as Hawke scrapes diced onion from the wooden board she chopped it on into a skillet full of eggs with a sharp knife. He notes, with dismay, that she's dressed in the leather leggings and jerkin she wears under her armor.

"About time you woke up," she says, glancing at him as she lowers the chopping board and the knife. She doesn't smile or offer him any other form of greeting, but he can smell bacon and biscuits cooking and the egg mixture looks compelling as he draws up behind her at the counter. He wraps an arm around her waist and presses his lips absently against her neck. Hawke lets her head fall back against his shoulder and her fingers lace through his on her stomach for a moment. Then she pries him loose and says, "Go get yourself a cup of coffee and stop distracting me or our breakfast will burn."

Fenris chuckles and pulls back, surprised at the faint chill that runs over him when he lets her go. _But only for now_, he thinks, turning toward the coffee pot she's set on the counter. "I did not know you could cook," he comments as he pours a mug of black liquid and sips it, watching her over the rim.

She sprinkles grated cheese from a nearby bowl over the eggs and folds it in with the onions using a spatula. "I'm very good at chopping things," she answers flatly. Her eyes catch his and he sees a twinkle of humor.

"It smells very good," he adds, drifting back toward her with his coffee mug pressed tight in between his palms. His gaze flicks down as she uses the spatula to flip several thick pieces of bacon over in a second pan. It sizzles and sends a wave of scent toward him and his stomach growls loudly. When Hawke lifts a brow at him he smirks and says, "I am eager to try it."

"I see that," she says, waving him back with the spatula when he tries to slip up behind her again. The flat, greasy part slaps his forearm. "Go. Sit at the table," she says, pointing with her kitchen-weapon. "We have a long day ahead."

"Where are your servants?" Fenris asks, raising his eyebrows. He slinks toward the table feeling irritated that she does not want him near.

Hawke sighs. "Orana is out running some errands. Bodahn and Sandal have the day off." She turns away for a second and whirls back with two plates in her hand, setting them side by side on the counter. He watches, fascinated at her efficient movements as she divides the eggs between the plates, heaping most onto one of them. Biscuits and bacon soon follow and she saunters around the counter to set his dish in front of him with a thump. "Eat up. We're going to the Bone Pit after this."

He burns his tongue on the eggs and shovels them down regardless, eyeing her over his food as she sits down across from him. "Have dragons eaten the miners again?" he mumbles, stuffing a few pieces of bacon in his mouth.

"Maker, Fenris, take your time. You eat like Carver did as a small boy," she snaps, but her eyes have a certain spark to them, that tenderness that lurks beneath the viciousness. She makes surgical cuts into her food, even things that do not require cutting, and eats small, controlled bites. But she pauses with her fork midway to her mouth to add, "Likely eaten. But it might be a cave-in. Hubert doesn't sully his hands with such things as scouts."

"Do we have to leave immediately?" he asks, pausing between bites to smirk at her. Her eyes flash over her responding smirk and he resumes eating at his previous pace.

When breakfast is done she takes the dishes to the sink and begins to clean them in warm, soapy water. Fenris follows, stepping up behind her and gripping her hips. He growls in her ear as he pulls her back against him and she gasps so quietly he can barely hear it. His mouth trails over her neck as his hands fumble her belt loose. She turns to kiss him, arching her neck so her back remains pressed against his chest and he grinds his hips against her backside, sliding her leggings to her knees. Once freed, he tilts her forward enough to find her slick center with his hands, then his length. Her soapy fingers trail back against his neck and then tangle in his hair as he presses inside of her.

They gasp against the sink. He can't decide where to place his hands and so they rove, gripping her hips and caressing her breasts, trailing down her stomach and touching that sensitive nub of flesh that makes her shiver. Were he inclined to playing music, she might feel like a finely-crafted instrument he's gaining mastery over. Fenris knows which touches on which places will draw which noises from her lips. A hitching gasp when his tongue trails the tendons of her neck, a tiny moan when his thumb flicks across her nipple, and the vicious half-scream half-shudder when he thrusts into her. His pace quickens and he can see one of her hands braced against the sink, his name a constant gasp on her mouth. She shivers over him and he feels the waves of her climax drawing him to his. He grips her hips hard enough to bruise as he seizures and empties himself inside of her.

"Marian," he moans, slumping against her back and kissing the side of her neck and face, wherever he can reach. Regretful, he pulls out again, but he turns her to face him, kissing her and wrapping her in his arms. He clings to her, to their kiss, until she draws back in his arms. Still he keeps a steely grip on her, afraid to lose hold of her again.

Hawke stares at him, her hair mussed and cheeks flushed, clothing askew and eyes at once fierce and gentle. "Is everything all right?" she asks, a faint frown crossing her brows.

Fenris reaches up to smooth her dark hair back into place and lets his fingers trail down her face. "Yes, Hawke. Everything is fine," he murmurs. "Better than fine," he smirks, pressing a final kiss to her swollen lips. She relaxes in his arms and kisses him back, clever fingers weaving into his hair and giving it a brief tug that makes him groan. He draws back and smirks at her before she can tempt him to drag her upstairs and announce their reconciliation by not leaving her bedroom for several days.

Instead, with a breath to calm himself and a step to separate their bodies, he says, "I believe we have an appointment to kill some dragons."

Three hours later he regrets saying this as he watches the massive dragon grip Aveline in its teeth and shake her steadily. As he dodges one of the massive claws he slashes his blade into the thick hide he sees the guard's shield wedged in between the teeth enough to prevent death, the arm holding it in place likely broken. The abomination shouts something behind him and suddenly lightning buzzes down from every angle. He sees Hawke dart behind the dragon, flipping over the massive tail and slashing bleeding bites into the thrashing appendage. Fenris activates his tattoos in time to avoid being slammed in the face by a massive wing, but the wind it brings sends him skidding back several feet, well within range of the claws. A magical shield springs around him just in time and he finds he can drive his sword through it, into the beast's massive foot until it protrudes from the other side.

Just as he stabs the dragon's foot, Aveline, in its jaws, manages to twist her sword arm up and into its eye with a horrible crack of metal as one fang digs through her plate armor and blood gushes from her shoulder. The beast drops the guard abruptly and she manages to keep hold of her weapon, widening the gouge she's made. Fenris clings to his own blade and is jerked forward when the dragon thrashes in pain and fury. He, too, tears it free and leaves the gash greater as Aveline is healed and takes the brunt of the ancient creature's fury. Where is Hawke? He sees a layer of ice form over the dragon's snout and then over his own weapon and hears the mage's harsh breathing somewhere behind him but he's more concerned with finding Hawke than with that mage's well-being.

Dragging his sword through the wing before it can beat down and gust him away again, Fenris attempts to circle around the dragon's flank. The tail snaps up into his chest and he hears a crack. As he flies through the air, managing to rip his sword through the wing again, cutting tendons, he glimpses Hawke using her daggers to climb up the dragon's back like a mountain. Then he slams to the dirt, coughing blood, and feels the burn of magic as the abomination heals him. He doesn't wait for the spell to end, already climbing to his feet and breathing heavily as he runs back in with a roar.

With flashes of lightning and ice and the clangs of metal, Fenris, Aveline, and the abomination keep this terrible dragon occupied for the next crucial seconds. Suddenly Hawke sits atop its head, her daggers slashing down viciously into its brain. She does not hesitate, gripping it's head in her knees as she stabs and slices, blood and gore flying all over the place. The dragon shrieks and snarls, whipping its head around. Fenris lunges forward and drives his sword into the chest scales, phasing the Blade of Mercy with his tattoos to ensure it can pierce the creature's armored scales. He sees Hawke flipping over to land without fail on the creature, both of them stabbing it until, with a final flail, she backflips away and lands in the dirt just as he leaps out of the way of the falling corpse.

"I'll talk to Hubert tomorrow," Hawke announces, examining the handsome red leather armor she's found among the dragon's stash. Her eyes meet his and he feels a wolfish grin beginning. He whirls away before any of the others can see it, falling in step beside her. They don't speak for the entirety of the walk back to Hightown, but he follows her directly into her house.

The moment her door closes they fall on one another with eager kisses and her palm presses against his groin, rubbing the hardness through the material of his pants before reaching to unfasten them, freeing his length. He strips off her leather armor and tosses her to the bed in her tunic, crawling over her as she reaches to take him in her hand. He gasps as her fingers run over him, barely seeing the ferocious glitter in her smirk as his eyes flutter. Before he can lean over and kiss her, she shifts down the bed so his knees are on the outsides of her shoulders and her breath plays over his hard, bare flesh.

Her gaze flicks up to his face and when she licks her lips, he feels the brush of her tongue against the slit at the tip to gather a drop of moisture. He shudders and moans, one hand moving to cup her cheek. "Marian," he whispers, relishing that when he says her name she sighs a bit and it whispers over his length, firing the nerves and making him twitch, jumping against her lips again. He grits his teeth and lies, "You don't have to..."

"Hmmm," she says, smirking up at him when he hisses at the sensation it produces. One of her hands grips the base of him and the other runs over his thigh. "What if I want to?" she asks him. Her tongue darts out now and licks very deliberately along the underside of his length, from base to tip.

Fenris groans, unable to contain himself. "_Festis bei umo canavarum_," he growls. He feels her chuckle as her lips close over the head, tongue swirling around it and the hand on her cheek moves to grip her hair as she draws him into her mouth in a slow, aching gulp. Breath hisses through his teeth and he suppresses his urge to close his eyes because the sight of her lips wrapped around his length is as exciting as the feeling her mouth causes.

Then Hawke pulls back, her cheeks and tongue and lips tightening around him and he moans at the pleasure. He braces his other hand on her headboard and his toes dig into her sheets as she brushes her tongue over that point just below the head that makes him gasp and tighten his hand in her hair. Her eyes glitter, stuck on his as she acquires a rhythm of wet heat and suction, brushes of her teeth and swirls from her tongue. Fenris watches her through all of it, his face and ears hot as she draws every moment out into agonizing ecstasy. He wants this sensation to last, wants to enjoy every tiny quiver of her lips, or the hum that vibrates over his length, wants to stare into her eyes and watch himself sliding into her mouth for years to come. But it overwhelms him too soon and he watches in torrid fascination as she swallows his seed, sucking every drop out and licking her lips afterward, like a cat with a canary.

Breathless, he collapses beside her on the bed, still in his armor with only his cock hanging free of his pants. He's too dizzy to remove it at the moment. Her tongue tastes of salt and musky and his arms clench around her possessively when she kisses him. Watching her face across the pillow as she pulls back from him, he whispers his only coherent word: "Why?"

"You stayed for breakfast," she answers.

* * *

><p>Hawke is relieved that Fenris doesn't spend every night with her, but those nights he does spend (between both of their work, it happens a few times a week) he does not leave. Every morning that she wakes up to feel his warm body pressed against hers, Hawke feels dazed. She is dazed at his presence, at the lips that alternate between vicious nips and tender kisses, at the hard lust in his eyes that softens to something gentle and unnameable when he whispers her name, at the words that shift from fury when she helps mages (Anders in particular) to husky desire the moment their arguments break out in physical violence, which they often do.<p>

"How can you think that idiot Orlesian boy will _not_ be caught by Templars or blood mages or slavers?" he yells one night, blood dripping from the side of his mouth where she recently punched him. One of his hands rests at the base of her throat, squeezing just enough to remind her that he _could_.

She snarls, "At least his fate is _his_." Her neck arches into his hand, her breasts against his chest heaving as she struggles once more against the iron grip of his fingers on her wrists, pinning them above her head. Lacking any more effective way to harm him, she bites his neck until she tastes blood as he moans and presses his hips against hers.

Fenris growls and releases her wrists in his haste to remove as much of their clothing as possible. And then he grips her by the hair and they knock most of the potions and poisons and writing supplies and books from her desk and his gauntlets gouge the wood as they moan together.

They make their regular visits to the Hanged Man and sit side-by-side, his foot possessively hooked behind her ankle to rest between her boots. He never shows her any public affection, thank the Maker, and their friends give them smirking sidelong looks but make no comment. When Isabela or Anders or Varric asks either of them what's going on, both of them turn almost-identical sneers on whoever asks and they back off quickly. Merrill pesters Fenris about it, calling it 'puppy eyes' and Hawke disguises a snort of laughter as a cough when she overhears. He's furious at her for it, and that night they leave bruises on each other and don't sleep as they continue reaching for one another again and again.

"If _you_ hadn't given her that tool, that thing to fix her evil Tevinter mirror, then the Keeper might be alive instead of that little witch," he screams two weeks later, flinging his bloodied weapon and armor into a corner and grabbing her biceps in a ferocious grip.

The trip to Sundermount took three days, during which time they had to sleep in separate bedrolls and attend the gruesome business of slaughtering the Keeper-turned-abomination and deal with the Dalish elves literally throwing them out at swordpoint. Things have been very tense, and Hawke hasn't missed all of the furious glares he's shot her throughout their trip to the mountain. She has no sympathy, because _he_ was the one who insisted on going with her because he didn't want to hang around his mansion all day.

She has no answer to his accusation, though. When guilt slumps her shoulders and vicious tears bite her eyes his hands shift suddenly to embrace her, to pull her against his chest. "If I had known," she murmurs in his pointed ear, "I would have killed Merrill in her place." There's a vicious, furious bite to her words, a rage that her interference has led the clan to leaderless chaos, stagnating on Sundermount, all of it laced with guilt. It is her fault. But much as she hates Merrill at this moment, she cannot hate her forever. The sweet, bubbling elf-girl is too kind-hearted and naive to murder in cold blood. And Hawke's known her too long. She hesitates and admits, "I at least wouldn't have given her that damned _thing_. Arulin-whatever."

His hands tighten around her and he is surprisingly gentle that night, lifting her limbs in place around him, trailing kisses over her skin until she's moaning his name and gasping for air and then he slides inside of her and they cling together.

As Kirkwall's political situation grows more fragile, she takes more solace in his presence, in the lanky shadow looming forever at her side, diving into battle with flashing steel at their fingertips and blood spraying in every direction. But as tensions in the Gallows spread through the rest of the city, she feels a gnawing fear in her stomach that when the inevitable battle occurs, he will leave her again, this time for good.

So she enjoys the time she has. She enjoys their arguments and fistfights just as much as she enjoys how the punching and kicking turns into tearing at clothes and gripping skin, how snarling mouths turn to biting kisses and how, somewhere in the midst of a violent coupling, one of them turns tender and then they are making love instead of warring with their bodies. He strokes her hair as she reads at night, content to listen to her murmuring the passages of her innumerable books on strategy, war, and battle. Some mornings she wakes up before him and cooks breakfast, while other mornings he stops her from sitting up with a forceful arm and warm, sleepy kisses. Once he wakes up first and attempts to cook; fortunately Bodahn and Orana put out the fire hastily (later her servants admit they stood by with buckets of water when he began swearing at a sack of flour) and Fenris storms off in a fury to return an hour later with a bag of oven-fresh pastries from a Lowtown bakery. He throws the bag at her so hard that all of its contents are mushed into a mass of sugar, fruit, and dough, and the two of them eat it with spoons right out of the bag.

As aware as she is of impending disaster, when she goes to distract the Grand Cleric for Anders' fishy dealings, she thinks he is talking to some of his 'inside sources' from his mage underground. He's been particularly testy about her and Fenris and she gets testy right back, ending his questions with the words, "You're right. It's not your place," and her finest sneer. She catches her lover's smirk out of the corner of her eye.

She jitters impatiently as she talks to Elthina, wanting to get back to Fenris because she knows he'll be waiting for her at home. Still, she can't resist the opportunity to point out that the mages need immediate Chantry intervention or the Templars would take things too far, very soon. _Bloody old bat,_ she thinks, lips tightening in irritation as the Grand Cleric answers that things have a way of working themselves out and the Maker has a plan and all of that evasive bullshit. By the time Anders shows, she's irritated and wondering just what the hell could take him so long. As they leave, she snarls and asks what he's doing and he gets just as evasive and she gives him a rough shove before marching back to her house.

Fenris is infinitely pleased to hear how irritated she is with Anders, and Hawke is infinitely pleased to see he's drawn her a bath. In only his leggings. "That abomination will cause more trouble than he's worth," he says, cutting off any reply she can make with a fierce, vicious kiss. He slides her clothes off one by one until she stand naked before him, her skin tightening and warming as his hands trail over it. He lifts her by her hips and she wraps her legs around his waist. As he carries her to the bathtub, his lips whispering over her shoulders and neck, he steps out of his pants. When he plunges into her, a second before the water splashes up around their sides, she arches and his mouth catches over the tip of her breast, vicious teeth dragging it to a point before his tender tongue soothes it.

He presses into her and her shoulders push against the wall of the tub, water sloshing over them to mix with their sweat, making their skin extra slick so that they cling and shudder all too soon. As their breath calms to a normal pace Fenris withdraws, scooping up a washcloth and a bar of soap. With his eyes on hers the entire time, he scrubs the day's grime from her skin, evoking tiny gasps when his fingers stray from time to time. Soon she's clean and he's just trailing the damp cloth over her skin, his hands wandering more and more, and she grabs his wrists to stall him, pulling the washcloth away.

"Your turn," she murmurs against his mouth, and sets to cleaning him with the same torturous, slow strokes of cloth and fingertips until he's hard and gasping for her. His hands dig into her waist as he kisses her and she presses him to the wall of the tub, impaling herself on his length with a hiss and fingernails digging into his back. Their mouths never separate as she rolls her hips against his and soon they moan into one another's mouths, clinging and shivering with the force of their climaxes.

They clamber from the tub when they are able to, making love on the cooling tiles of the floor and then staggering to her bedroom, where they remain in the throes of some strange, ethereal need to tangle together over and over again. By the time they fall asleep it's past midnight and half the furniture in her room is scattered, upended, the trinkets crushed and broken or fallen to the floor and left to lie in favor of other concerns. Hawke curls up against his side with a leg slung across one hips and trailing between his thighs so her toes brush his knee. His arm tightens around her shoulder as she drifts off, and she feels his hand pushing her short, sweaty hair from her face as he whispers, "Goodnight, Marian."

Neither one realizes it is their last night in Kirkwall.

As the horrific red glow tears the Chantry to pieces, Hawke whirls and her fist connects with Anders' face so hard he staggers back, cupping the injured jaw and spitting blood out. Sorrowful brown eyes meet hers and she feels a sick, sudden certainty that she wants to kill him. He lied. He deserves to die. He deserves to suffer. He _got her to help him_. Nauseated, she turns away from him as he slumps to sit on a crate, eyes flicking around at her group of companions.

Meredith's voice drones on and she does not have to listen to the exact words, using the moment to absorb the shock. And then the Knight-Commander turns toward her, brows raised, and says, "What say you, Champion?"

Hawke sneers at her. "Sod off, you crazy bitch," she says. "You've been looking for an excuse to kill all the mages for a long while and this-" she gives Anders a sharp kick in the ribs, unable to restrain her impulse to do harm to him "-this _refuse_ gave you that excuse." All of her attention and fury resume to that narrow focus of Anders and she turns to face his back, to see he's hunched around the side she kicked and has made no effort to heal either of the minor injuries she's inflicted on him. "You blighted fool! What the bloody hell is wrong with you?" she screams.

"You've doomed us all," Orsino adds, and Hawke turns a fierce, narrow-eyed glare at him. The First Enchanter shuts up with an audible snap of his jaw.

As Anders all but begs for death, Hawke stares at his back, her expression hardening to cold fury. She touches one of the knives strapped to her and then hesitates, glancing at her companions. "Opinions?" she asks in a detached tone.

It is Fenris who decides her. He says, "He wishes for death. Grant it to him." And he's right.

Anders does want to die. Anders would be free if she plunged the knife between his ribs. She delivers a final kick to the mage's back and tells him, in a cold tone, that he needs to leave. He slinks away and her world widens once more as she turns to her friends, realizing they will have to fight their way through the city. She does not expect any of them to follow her further, but they all do. Even Fenris.

"It is a mistake," he says, eyes hard as he stares at her. Then he glances down at the red fabric on his wrist, always clean now that he has access to her supply of Amell-crested handkerchiefs and napkins (and today he is, in fact, wearing the latter). "But I will not abandon you," he adds, and her heart resumes beating.

Suddenly it does not seem as hopeless. And he remains at her side as they slash their way through the burning city of Kirkwall, his greatsword felling Templars and demons alike. As they ride on the boat to the Gallows, he stares into her eyes and in the silence of sloshing water against the hull, she feels as if a thousand voices are cheering her on. All of his viciousness, his brilliance, his eloquence and unbridled fury are at her side, willing to remain there and defend mages even though he detests magic. The ferry ride is too short and they are running up to the mages' defense all too soon.

It hardly surprises her when Anders returns to help at the Gallows, and she sneers at him when he makes another attempt to apologize and promises to make it up. She spits in his face and whirls away, stalking toward Fenris.

"I never thought I'd be defending mages," he says, glaring at her. His gaze flicks to Anders, who stands with his head hung and spittle dripping down his cheek like tears, knowing he'll never be forgiven or accepted for what he's done. Then he looks back and Hawke and she looks back at him. "You lead me down strange roads, indeed."

She takes a breath. "Things will get even stranger if we live through this," she says.

"There will be unspeakable horrors," he murmurs, green eyes on hers. The flinty quality shifts into smoother stone and his voice, contrastingly, roughens. "Promise me you will not die. I cannot bear the thought of living without you."

Hawke stares at him. Her heart pounds and for a long moment she can't think of what to say. And then she gives him a vicious, confident grin, stepping forward to breathe in his scent. "We're both going to live through this, Fenris," she says, and realizes as she says it that this is the most fierce promise she's ever made. Even when she swore to her father to keep her family safe, she did not feel such a strength in the words of her oath.

Then he pulls her against his chest and kisses her, his arms wrapping around her in a fierce, protective grip and pressing their bodies together. She clings just as tight, her tongue tangling with his, her lips sealed to his mouth, her fingers in his hair and the fabric of his tunic. The kiss goes on far too long for it to be decent or socially acceptable and she does not care, holding onto him and kissing him with all of the desperate passion and viciousness and frenzied love she's felt for him all these years. Hawke kisses him hard and soft in alternating waves, just as their entire existence has been since meeting each other. Her mouth is bruised and her breathing ragged when they finally draw apart but she smirks at him and whispers, "Don't you _dare_ die."

His hand runs down from her hair to cup her cheek and he presses a small, tender peck to her lower lip. As all of their companions stare in varying degrees of awe, amusement, embarrassment and curiosity, Hawke saunters up to the First Enchanter.

"Let's get this over with."

* * *

><p>Epilogue, anyone? :D<p> 


	9. Beloved

The EPILOGUE is here. And a very neon, flashing 'read another one of my fics!' sign pointing toward 'Burning Horizon.' Yes, that Hawke (and her Fenris) are from _Viciousness_, though for the purposes of predicting DA3 possibilities, Bethany is a Warden in that. Just to forewarn any who go to check it out of that discontinuity.

Thank you all, my readers and reviewers and fans and all the crazy people who read this. I love you all in a very genuine way (lord, I'm getting weepy).

Basically, an double-epilogue. One leads toward the next step in Hawke's adventures (and introduces you to her new companions) while the very end shows us the simplicity that awaits after all of these adventures have been survived.

* * *

><p><em>One month later: <em>

Brogan sits in a Denerim bar with a large dwarven ale in his hands when he hears that whispered word. "Champion." He has to turn around, to take in the sight of the tall brunette woman with her piercing aqua eyes and the lanky dark-clad elf man at her side. Both look vicious and dangerous, their necks and ears mottled with bruises and red teeth marks and their fingers flexing ready for their weapons. What he notices most is how they stick to shadows, how she raises her hood and the elf's green eyes glitter from the dark corner of their table. He does not approach them, aware that it would mean a hasty demise.

Instead the dwarf rogue finishes his ale, straightens his duster, and leaves the tavern. He has business with the Templars, and though it would mean extra coin for him in the short run, he decides not to mention seeing Hawke. Brogan is no fool, and he knows that if the Templars find her and that elf, he'll be out quite a few clients.

_Three months later:_

Aiden sits in his cell in the Ostwick Tower of Magi poring over an arcane volume about the practical uses of blood magic when the door bangs open. He snatches the book behind his back at the sight of one of the Enchanters, wild-eyed with glee and breathing heavily in a rare show of excitement.

"She's here," the Enchanter gasps, sounding like a young noble swooning over a prince. At Aiden's blank look she clarifies, with laugh lines standing out around her eyes, "The Champion. She's in Ostwick."

He hears the din of hundreds of voices, the shout and clash of steel and feels the heavy pulse of magic in the air. As he steps into the hallway, he realizes that he's entered a revolution, that the mages of Ostwick are overthrowing the Templars. Overcoming his initial confusion and consternation, Aiden shoves his way through the halls, slamming his staff into bodies when necessary, until he reaches the lowest level.

When he gets there, Aiden stares in shock, too amazed to even summon his magic, not that they need his help. The white-haired man is no grandfatherly figure, his pointed ears laid flat against his head like a wolf as a snarl shapes his lips and the pale tattoos running over his arms ignite to a fierce blue glow. His greatsword shears Templar armor like it is paper, but it is no match for the swift blur of the woman, only fully visible for that moment when her knives land in a man's throat or heart. A series of kicks and flips and rapid movements and she's managed to kill half the men there. His heart thuds for a long moment and then, with a grin, Aiden starts flinging bolts of spirit energy into his oppressors.

_Six months later:_

Dualla hears the story of the Champion late one night while hunched around a bonfire made of burning garbage. For all her skill with a bow, the preferred weapon of her race, she cannot find enough work to live in even one of the horrific, decaying apartments of the Val Royeaux Alienage. So she hunkers on the streets, in the alleys with her motley group of fellow thieves.

"Bullshit," one of the elves rasps. "Why would a human noblewoman run around with an elven slave?"

She narrows her eyes at him and hugs her ragged cloak a bit tighter around her shoulders. "Why would a proud elf run around with a human?" she retorts, and the others start laughing. But Dualla feels a tug in her heart, a feeling she's never known before: hope. After a few minutes, she leaves the trash-fire. That same night, she pulls off the first in a string of increasingly daring robberies to noble estates in the city.

_One year later:_

Gayle leans her cheek against the secret panel in the Archon's office, listening through the thinned wall to the words he exchanges with a pair of his favored Magisters. She holds her breath so as not to make a sound, knowing it will make no difference to her father that she alone among his children has magic powerful enough to earn her a place among the Magisters if he hears her there.

"The very same one who killed Denarius-" one of the Magisters says. Gayle smirks; until the extent of her power was discovered she was intended as a gift to that old goat and she's never felt any hint of remorse for his death.

"-now she runs about with his _slave_. As her _lover_," sneers the other Magister. Now Gayle holds in a disbelieving snort. Why would such a powerful woman stoop to bedding an elf, much less a slave? A powerful woman in her own right, the young mage cannot fathom how the Champion would ever give up her title and wealth and run into the wilderness with a slave.

The Archon pauses and she can envision her father making a steeple of his fingers, hard gray eyes darting to each man in turn. "I shall send Gyldenmae to investigate these claims. If she dies..." he makes a dismissive noise, "... it cannot be helped." Gayle almost chokes to hear the name her father gave her when he simultaneously elevated her to the ranks of Magister and acknowledged her as his child. She does not hear his next words as she hurries off down the passage. It will take weeks to leave Tevinter, months if she goes directly south.

She's going to kill this Champion before her father can sacrifice her to the madwoman.

_Eighteen months later:_

Maraas walks through the woods when he catches a familiar scent, one he has not smelled since Kirkwall. He has work that he must honor, but he cannot resist veering a few paces off his route to see the path behind the trees. Two sets of tracks, one of a rogue woman's boots and the other of an elf man's feet, wind into the forest.

"We shall meet again, _basra_," he says, staring after the Champion's footprints a moment longer before he returns to his task.

_Two years later:_

Cassandra Pentaghast scowls at the landscape portrait of Kirkwall hanging above the fireplace in the now-vacant Amell Estate. Already she has scoured Rivain, Antiva, Ferelden and the rest of the Free Marches. It is her third trip to Kirkwall in the past two years, since the Chantry burned at the hands of the Champion's apostate friend. But for all of her resources, for all of her searching, she hasn't been able to so much as lay her hands on one of that blighted Champion's companions.

Now she has a lead. Now she has something to go on. She turns around with a serious expression as her men drag the dwarf, Varric Tethras, into the darkened room with her.

* * *

><p>"Mama! Beth <em>hit<em> me!" shouts a little boy with vivid green eyes, running to tug on Hawke's tunic. She musses his hair with one hand and then gives him a little shove back toward his sister.

"Beth!" she calls, "The next time you hit Leto, he has my permission to shoot fireballs at you."

Fenris looks up from the book he's been reading with a raised brow. "Is that really the best way to solve things?" he asks her as the little boy sprints out to chase his twin around the yard. "Telling him to carelessly shoot at his own sister with magic?"

Hawke smirks at him. "Beth's been learning to dodge from the best," she replies, pulling dough from a corner of the kitchen and slamming her fist into it to settle the bubbles. "But if you want to fight about it, you know I'm happy to oblige you." She chuckles when he darts around the counter to nip her ear, arms winding around her waist as she kneads the dough. His chin rests on her shoulder. It is the closest they have come to a fistfight in many years.

"After Kirkwall and then Val Royeaux," he says, and she can hear the faint smile in his voice. "I am happy for the peace we've found."


End file.
